


Aria in B♭

by 27dragons, tisfan



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Duelling, Gambling, M/M, Pining, Prostitution, nobleman Tony Stark, opera singer Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/27dragons/pseuds/27dragons, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Lord Stark has his faults -- a bit too fond of a drink, a little too reckless at cards, and entirely too happy to flout his good fortune in his rivals’ faces. But a man as wealthy and powerful as Tony Stark is bound to have a few peccadillos. What he is not, is the sort of man who would force himself upon another unwilling, unlike Lord Killian, who seems to have taken a particular shine to an opera singer in the troupe Killian is hosting.Tony rescues Mr. Barnes from Killian’s untender mercies, moves the troupe into his own home, and takes Mr. Barnes as his bed companion for the season. The arrangement provides protection for Bucky and the troupe from Killian’s spite, and tweaks Killian at the same time -- a win all around, as far as Tony is concerned.He wasn’t counting on Bucky being so utterly charming and wonderful, or for the possibility that he might actually, after so many years a bachelor, fall in love.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark
Comments: 428
Kudos: 510
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020, StarkBucksBingo2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills bingo squares:  
> \- for tisfan, Bucky Barnes Bingo, square U1 - Competence Kink  
> \- for 27dragons, Starkbucks Bingo, square B1 - AU: Regency

As a rule, Tony avoided going to events hosted by Lord Killian, if he could possibly get out of them. Killian was the most insufferable bore, endlessly bragging about the things he’d done, without giving so much as a blink of acknowledgement to anyone else, or even politely listening to someone else’s boring recitation of their advantages.

And it always seemed to end with everyone having a little too much to drink, and Tony soundly thrashing Killian at cards, which just made things awkward.

Unfortunately, Tony hadn’t been able to come up with a socially acceptable excuse for avoiding this one -- everyone he’d normally claim to have already had an engagement with was also going to Killian’s soiree. Everyone was very excited, it seemed, for the new opera troupe that was touring.

Tony fixed his polite-society smile as the carriage pulled to a halt in front of Killian’s estate manor. He was looking forward to an evening of stultifying conversation and fortune hunters, interspersed with entertainment consisting of, Tony was fairly certain, warbly soprano and croaking bass.

His only consolation was that Killian’s booze was top-shelf.

Killian’s butler took Tony’s coat and hat, bowed to him, and one of what appeared to be a half-dozen brightly garbed young adults, part of the troupe based on their scandalously short tunics and greek-style lace-up sandals, showing off a shocking amount of leg, bowed to him, offered him a flower. “This way, my lord, to see the tragedy of _Ph_ _è_ _dre_ , our exclusive performance.”

Well, it was certain to be a tragedy, Tony thought, though he managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “Lead on,” he instructed, because he might as well get it over with. At least if he heard the singing right away, he’d know how long he’d have to stay before he could plead the headache.

One of Killian’s larger ballrooms had been completely redone for the troupe -- or perhaps, even, by the troupe. A cunning stage with multiple levels had been raised, and Tony saw, to his fascination, that there were lifts between levels for the actors to be raised into the heavens to sing. It took up a good third of the room, and there were many slender, uncomfortable-seeming chairs laid out for the audience members, draped with gauze garlands.

A few seats, toward the front, were more elaborate, lounging divans, with heaps of fresh grapes on platters laid out on low tables near them. Part of the scenery, Tony thought, at first, until he saw Killian on one, being fed grapes by what looked to be one of the actors.

He was dressed in a simple linen tunic with a breastplate over it, sandals, and a sword at his side. Thick, black hair was held back with a leather headband, and a crimson cloak rippled down from his shoulders. He appeared to be entirely at ease in his ridiculous outfit, and laughing at something Killian had said.

“Lord Killian,” Tony said as he approached. “It looks as though this will be quite the performance.”

“We can but hope it will please,” the actor said, bowing low. Close up, Tony could tell the youth and good features were not the result of makeup. The man was, quite possibly, the most beautiful person Tony had ever seen, with silver-grey eyes, perfect cheekbones, flawless skin, and a shapely jaw. The rest of him was lush, rich, from his mouth that seemed made for kissing, to the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and shapely legs.

“I admit, the scenery here has piqued my curiosity.” The man almost as much as the interesting stage. “May I wish you a good performance, Mr...?”

“Barnes, my Lord Stark,” he said. “I eagerly await your opinion, after the show.”

“Stop drooling, Tony,” Killian said, swatting at Tony’s legs idly with one hand. “Have a recline, if you like, old chap.”

“Just making conversation,” Tony protested mildly. He sat on one of the divans and helped himself to a grape. “Mr. Barnes, I’m sure I’ll be pleased to speak with you later. I think I see your leading lady searching for you.” He nodded toward the side of the stage, where a lovely young lady was scanning the room.

Mr. Barnes went off, talked briefly to the red-haired woman, and then they both disappeared behind the scenery. 

“Quite remarkable, the pair of them,” Killian said. “I saw them perform first at Hôtel de Bourgogne, with my dear friend, the Duke of Burgundy. Are you acquainted with his Grace?”

“But of course,” Tony said. At least, he was as acquainted with the Duke as Killian was, which was to say, they might have trod the same dance floor at some point. “What was the performance then?” He wondered if Killian even knew, or if he’d spent the entire thing trying to ingratiate himself with the peerage.

“Oh, the one about the King of Italy, I don’t recall,” Killian said. “The point of being at the opera in Paris is not to see the opera, but to _be seen_ at the opera. I looked amazing, having just commissioned a new coat by one of the best French tailors, such a flutter. But even the distraction of such wonders as myself were silenced when Mr. Barnes started to sing. He’s quite remarkable.”

This, _this_ was why Tony hated coming to Killian’s gatherings. Such a self-centered ass. “I’m sure we’re all grateful to you for having secured a place in the troupe’s tour, then.”

“It cost a ridiculous number of crowns, but as I always say, it’s only money,” Killian said.

“You do always say that,” Tony agreed. Especially when he was pretending not to be bothered by the amount he’d lost to Tony at the card table. “Still, an excellent thing, to be known as a patron of the arts.”

“Your mother, I recall, was a particularly avid patron of the arts, herself,” Killian said, eyeing Tony with no small amount of disdain.

Tony reminded himself that it was bad form to punch a man in his own ballroom. “My mother,” he said as breezily as he could manage, “understood well that there was no putting a price on beauty.”

Killian looked as if he might add something more personal and snide, but one of the actors came out onto the stage and struck a pose. A few more, and the lights were dimmed. A chorus of muses came out to set the scene, and the opera began.

_Phèdre_ , half-sister to the Minotaur, daughter of Minos, has inherited her mother’s curse, and developed an unholy longing for her young stepson--

Mr. Barnes came out onto the stage to sing passionately about his true love, Aricia, and to despair that she has been kept from him by his father. His voice was powerful, a lyric tenor, with amazing breath control, richly colored and sumptuously resonant. His singing filled the entire hall, the expression on his face, the way he held his poses, the very real anguish he seemed to be in, spoke to everyone in the audience.

By the time the first act was complete, there was hardly a dry eye in the house, hoping, breathlessly, that this time, just this once, love would win the day.

Tony wasn’t one of the unmoved few. He had to shuffle out a pocket square to dab at his cheeks, hardly able to peel his eyes from the spot where Mr. Barnes had last been. “My God,” he breathed. “That’s... _incredible_.”

Killian might have scoffed; Tony didn’t bother to look. “Hosting them here will make quite a stir, won’t it? And… such affectionate, _attentive_ guests they’ve been.”

Tony would have rolled his eyes at that, but they were still swollen and probably red, and rolling them would have made them ache. It wasn’t like it was a secret that performers occasionally gave somewhat more _private_ performances for their patrons, but it was just like Killian to be crass enough to mention it so baldly. He couldn’t resist a little dig, though. “I’m sure you’ve made the best arrangements for them that you could.”

Killian snorted. “I’d say I exceeded all expectations for generosity.”

The lights flickered again, actors taking places for the second part-- Mr. Barnes’ costume was even more revealing than before, as the young man attempted to avoid his amorous step-mother while convincing his father of the depth of his love. The love song dedicated to his beloved, and her impassioned response was compelling. The two of them, Barnes and-- Tony scrolled down the play bill that had been left near the grapes; a Ms. Romanoff played the doomed Aricia. --seemed to be openly declaring themselves in verse.

Tony found himself leaning forward, drawn toward them, toward the beauty and the inevitable tragedy of their longing. Their voices were _perfection_ , honeyed and rich without being cloying, vibrant with passion without relying on vibrato. Tony could swear that was real love in their eyes as they reached for each other.

“You know,” Killian said, “the thing with taking up with an opera singer is that they can lie to you with their entire body, and you’d never know it. Hell, you’d thank ‘em to do it.”

Tony suppressed a shudder at the thought of Killian’s smarmy hands and mouth on any of these performers, but especially the lead pair. They were young and beautiful and _talented_ , and shouldn’t need the patronage of someone like Aldrich Killian to write their names in the stars. “Hush,” Tony murmured. “I’m enjoying the story.”

“So I see,” Killian said, but at least he shut up and let Tony watch the show. Getting _Tony Stark_ to sit down quietly somewhere for a few hours was an accomplishment in and of itself, so maybe Killian could, just once, bask in his damn glory and leave Tony alone.

Finally, at the end, nearly everyone had met a tragic demise, and the grief-stricken Theseus, mourning his son and his wife, adopted Aricia and made her his heir, as she would have been, if she’d been allowed to wed his son.

“Dribble,” Killian said. “Anyone with an ounce of sense would stay out of a tragedy like that. It’s all their own faults.”

The actors came out to make their final bows. Mr. Barnes was still wearing the bloody tunic from his death scene. He looked out over the audience, as if seeing them for the very first time. When he took his bow, it seemed like he met Tony’s gaze, gave him a private smile, and a wink.

A silver shiver of heat rushed through Tony’s body before he could convince himself he’d imagined that look. What if he hadn’t?

He applauded long and well for the entire cast -- the performance had been enchanting, much better than Tony’d had any right to expect. How Killian had managed to snare such a talented troupe was entirely beyond him. When the acclaim died down and the performers disappeared to change and wipe off their gaudy makeup, Tony tipped his head toward Killian. “Are they stopping long, do you think? I should like to see what else is in their repertoire.”

“On my estate, perhaps a week,” Killian said. “More if things go well. I believe they’re booked in London for the entire Season. Might even get me into the city and do the ridiculous courting thing. It shall be terribly boring, but I’ll-- make do, I suppose. Especially with such charming companions.”

Oh, dear Lord. “If you’re doing the courting thing,” Tony pointed out, “it’s bad form to have an opera singer on your arm.”

“Well, good thing on my arm isn’t where I want one,” Killian said. “Do have a good time mingling, dear boy. I have things to do, you know.”

Ugh. Killian was utterly detestable.

Tony took a glass of something from a passing waiter and sipped as he worked his way back through the ballroom, stopping here and there to greet the few present he actually liked, or at least tolerated. It wouldn’t do to be seen rushing away, but all the same, he had no intention of staying any longer than politeness demanded. God forbid he be forced to talk to Killian again, or worse, one of Killian’s even less-intelligent cronies.

He was just heading out when he saw Mr. Barnes cross from one of the smaller rooms in the house, look around carefully, and-- 

Stopped dead when he saw Tony, then, pressing his finger over those lush lips, said, “Shhh,” and disappeared into the library, shutting the door quietly behind him.

What the devil? Tony hesitated, entirely too tempted to go listen at the library door and try to determine what was going on, knowing he should leave well enough alone and send for his carriage.

Killian scowled, striding into the hall as if he were looking for someone. “Oh, Lord Stark, leaving so soon? I don’t suppose you saw-- someone?”

“I saw any number of people,” Tony said breezily, waving toward the ballroom. “I’m quite exhausted from all the excitement.”

“That would be, indeed, an accomplishment,” Killian said. “Be as it may, if you’re for other entertainment tonight, best be about it. The crush to get out to the streets again-- you know how it goes. Popular parties make the worst traffic.”

“Indeed. I wish you good fortune in finding... someone.” Tony smiled blandly as he watched Killian stride off again, then gave in to his baser impulses and backed toward the library door, leaning against the wall to listen.

A moment later, he all but fell into Mr. Barnes’ arms as the singer opened the door suddenly.

“Blast,” Mr. Barnes said, shooting a look down the hall. “I thought you’d both gone, I’m sorry.”

Tony recovered his balance and held up his hands disarmingly. “If you wish me to be gone, I shall be,” he said. “But not, I hope, before you allow me to tell you how lovely your performance was.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Mr. Barnes grabbed Tony’s arm, pulled him into the library. He put his hand lightly over Tony’s mouth and pushed him against the door, as if to listen. Or hold the door closed.

“Please,” he said, those blue eyes very close to Tony’s, the warm air of his breath on Tony’s cheek. “Don’t--”

Tony wasn’t sure he could have moved if he’d wanted to.

The footsteps drew nearer, and the idea fell into his thoughts like a gift from the gods. He pushed Mr. Barnes back, and pointed at the heavy curtain covering the window, made a shooing gesture. Quickly, he scanned the shelves and selected a thick volume, slightly dusty but richly bound, and opened it at random, leaning idly against the desk.

* * *

Bucky found the edge of the curtain and disappeared behind it. At least it was a real curtain and not a prop. He was pressed against the glass, and a quick glance behind him told him that he probably wouldn’t be seen. The library looked out at the garden, and anyone in the garden at this time of night was probably looking at their tryst partner and not at opera singers hiding from rich, angry lords.

God, why hadn’t he listened to the rumors that Lord Killian was bad news?

But he was rich, and while more enchanted with himself than charming, he had made the offer for the company, when they were in a bad spot. Getting a rich patron would help them get back on their feet after Steve’s illness had taken so much of their money. He was still recovering, the stand-in taking his roles. 

Bucky wasn’t a fool; he’d taken lovers amongst the upper class from time to time. For amusement, and sometimes for money.

But he’d never had anyone refuse to take a polite demural.

And even a less polite no, thank you.

Bucky was pretty sure if he refused Killian again, he could say goodbye to them having anywhere to live for the next two weeks.

Which would be very bad for Steve. If he had to stay in the stage wagons for weeks before they could take up their lodgings in London, he’d probably _die_.

On the other hand, if Killian couldn’t find Bucky, he couldn’t make demands.

Theoretically.

The door opened, and maybe it was only Bucky’s nerves that made the sound seem impatient and angry.

“Lord Stark,” Killian said in tones bordering on icy. “I thought you were leaving.”

“I was just on my way out the door,” Lord Stark said, sounding entirely at ease, “when I recalled you’d mentioned having a copy of _The History of the Caliph Vathek_ from a first printing. I’ve been meaning to have a look. I knew you wouldn’t mind, since you were so proud of it. I’ll be quite careful not to damage it, have no fear.”

“Yes, of course,” Killian said. “I’m happy to provide you what aid I can, as it’s not in your collection. Very hard to find, quite expensive, you know. Enjoy the book, stay as long as you like.”

Bucky didn’t know what to make of the conversation; books were books. Why pay a lot for one done by a scribe when you could get a printed copy for only a few pounds at the local bookshop? But if he’d learned anything in the few days of having Killian following him around like a bitch in heat, it was that the man cared nothing for the trappings of wealth, aside from to show them off to other people.

Stark, whose name had come up in conversation a few times, usually with Killian pointing out how much richer, more important, and certainly more good looking Killian was, said something polite and meaningless.

A moment later, the door closed again.

Bucky all but went limp against the glass. Thank _Christ_.

A few moments passed and then Bucky heard the sound of a heavy volume closing. “I believe it’s safe to come out again, Mr. Barnes.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, fighting his way through the fabric again. Did the man never dust? Well, no, obviously the Lord couldn’t be bothered, but he must not use the library very much if the servants dared to let the dust settle like this. “I believe I owe you my life, or at the very least, my livelihood, for the next few days.”

“Oh, nothing as dramatic as all that,” Lord Stark said. “I’ve gone to far greater lengths to annoy Killian for my own amusement, never mind keeping him from being an utter bastard.”

“He’s persistent,” Bucky said, slanting his gaze at the door, watching to see if the shadows moved. “And I’m not in a position to refuse him without engaging his ire.”

“Persistent is the very politest word I can imagine using for Killian; let me congratulate you on your diplomacy. But if you’ve no intention of giving in to him, you may wish to consider alternate accommodations. He all but told me outright that he’d already struck up an arrangement with you. I doubt he’ll be gracious about being proven incorrect.”

“Perhaps not,” Bucky said, heart sinking. “I’m very much hoping my letters to Doctor Erskine meet with success. Our troupe lead, Mr. Rogers, is very ill. Recovering, a little, we hope, but we lost our previous place. The lady of the house has a horror of infection and insisted that -- Mr. Rogers has a heart condition; it’s not something he could possibly-- anyway, I had to take the first available offer, didn’t I?”

Bucky wasn’t sure why he was bothering to say any of this. It was quite possible that Stark, despite his apparent rivalry with Killian, was not the slightest bit interested. Or even if he were, unlikely to come to the aid of an entire troupe of actors.

“I’m certain things seemed quite dire,” Lord Stark agreed, and even managed to look sympathetic. “You could... It’s too bold of me, perhaps, but I might offer to guest the troupe for a time. I’ve a large enough manor house, though I doubt my ballroom is quite up to Lord Killian’s standards. Without,” he added, “any unsavory expectations.”

Bucky glanced at Stark. “I don’t necessarily object to a dalliance, I just prefer to have the option open.” He was, in fact, quite a pretty man, with a cheerful smile, a bit of the sly fox to his looks. Or maybe just a little devilish. And he didn’t seem to have the same ego as Killian, that needed constant flattery to keep him docile.

Bucky was not very good at false flattery. Killian didn’t have enough redeeming qualities beyond a fat wallet to make more than an evening’s conversation.

Stark hummed. “If the option is not left open, then _dalliance_ is not the correct word for the encounter,” he said, somewhat darkly. “I can assure you, no one in my household -- myself included -- would press a suit where they are not wanted. My offer springs from two motives: the first and largest, that I was entirely moved by the evening’s entertainment and wish, in some small way, to be of assistance. The second...” He shrugged and tipped a slightly rueful smile in Bucky’s direction. “...is that the move would further my position in the longstanding rivalry between Lord Killian and myself. I admit it freely; I am far from saintly.”

“You do look like you have quite a wicked streak, Lord Stark, if I might be so bold,” Bucky said. He was feeling a little more steady on his feet. Even just knowing they had options-- that was something. Bucky couldn’t see dragging them all out into the chilly spring weather because he was being _squeamish_.

“Well, give it some thought,” Stark said. “If you think you’ve escaped him for the night, I’d be more than happy to receive the troupe in the morning. And if there’s any special arrangements that can be made for your troupe leader, you have only to say the word.”

“He needs a warm room, and quiet,” Bucky said. “If-- perhaps I can accompany you back to your home for the evening. To inspect it for Steve’s comfort, of course?” Natasha was going to tease him for hours, if he ended up spending the whole night hiding in the manor house. An escape-- just to not have to _worry_ , would be a relief.

“Of course; I should have thought of that myself.” Stark slid Killian’s volume back onto the shelf and went to the door. He listened for a moment, then cracked it and peered out into the hall. “It appears safe enough to make for the front hall,” he reported.

“You’re very gracious,” Bucky murmured. It would be chilly, but he didn’t have time to change out of his stage outfit. Or get his coat. 

“Not at all,” Stark said. “If people like Killian are going to continue to persist in the world, then it behooves the rest of us to do what little we may to counterbalance.” He checked the hall again, then led the way out, launching into a rather detailed discussion of the opera’s musical themes right in the middle, as if it were a conversation they’d been having for some time.

When they reached the front hall, Killian’s butler brought out a coat and hat; Lord Stark took the hat, but waved carelessly in Bucky’s direction rather than taking the coat. “Let him hold it,” he said absently. “It’s such a crush in there, a little cool air will do me good.”

“You’re very kind,” Bucky said, softly, folding the greatcoat over his arm. He’d put it on as soon as he got into the carriage. The coat smelled good, too. A little like fine whiskey and cologne and-- machine jelly? It was a distinctive smell; Bucky only ever noticed it when the company rode steam engines.

“Oh, and--” Stark took a tin of calling cards from his pocket and deftly sorted one out. He considered it briefly, then folded one corner and handed it to the butler. “If you would be so kind as to pass that on to Miss Romanoff? I very much enjoyed her performance this evening.”

The sound of a carriage drew Stark’s attention before the butler had even finished agreeing to pass on the message. “Ah, there we are! Best to slip out early, before there are too many animals clogging the streets, don’t you think?” Still chattering, he led Bucky out to the carriage.

The inside of Stark’s carriage was luxurious, which was only to be expected, but it was also incredibly well-sprung. “This is a superior vehicle,” Bucky said, slipping into Stark’s longcoat, which kept his shoulders from freezing right off, but he’d be glad to be back indoors. Sandals were not shoes meant for March in England.

“Thank you,” Stark said as he settled and the footman closed the door behind them. “I re-installed the springs myself.”

Bucky glanced at the man, studying him. He looked like any other lord -- a little more handsome than most, perhaps. Without thinking about it, Bucky held out his hand, palm up, inviting Stark to show Bucky proof in the form of his fingertips. Bucky knew riding calluses and hunting calluses and the sort of hands a farmer had after weeks tending crops.

Nobles tended to have soft hands, wearing gloves to ride and shoot and dance, never lifting a tool, never knowing a day of work. He even knew a few who wouldn’t know how to pull up their own stockings, or put powder on their toothbrush without a handful of servants walking them through the whole process.

Bucky was convinced that, if all the servants in the world walked off the job, just for a few days, the entire nobility would starve to death, or drown in the bath.

Stark just looked amused. He tossed his hat onto the seat beside him and peeled off a glove before offering the hand to Bucky’s inspection.

His hands were clean, but the nails were cut all the way down. Joints were swollen from work, and there were any number of half-healed nicks and bruises. Thick calluses, especially in a strip along his palm. “What do you do, work in a smithy?” Bucky asked. It was rude, but he’d only seen one hand like that before, on the man who kept their horses shod and their wagons in repair.

Stark laughed. “After a fashion. I’m a bit of a tinkerer. I make things. Or improve them.”

“You’re something of a surprise, Lord Stark.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want to be a bore.”

“I don’t think anyone would make that mistake,” Bucky said. There was a slow swirl of heat in his midsection that had little to do with being in the carriage, and not even much to do with the relief of -- hopefully -- finding a safe harbor in a world that didn’t prize actors and singers as being precisely _human_. 

Maybe it was that he was still holding Stark’s hand, warm and rough, _intimate_. 

Or the way Stark was looking at him. Like Bucky’s opinion mattered to him.

[ ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512114)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Tony mentions is <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vathek>. (Certain readers may notice a trend in Killian’s preferred reading material.)
> 
> Edited Feb 2021: Oh my lord, look at this UTTERLY BEAUTIFUL ART that was created for this story by [hundredthousands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hundredthousands/pseuds/hundredthousands)! Thank you, thank you, thank you! And thanks also to [thursdayknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thursdayknight/pseuds/thursdayknight), who requested this art for the Winteriron Winter Stockings event!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills tisfan's Bucky Barnes Bingo square B3: Kink - "Harder"
> 
> Smut-averse readers... Smuts ahead. There is a link just as they get started that will skip over it for you so you can read the end bits. :)

Mr. Barnes was lithe and agile, hopping down from the carriage without waiting for the footman, but he did, with a flirty little grin, extend a hand to help Tony down.

“It’s a well situated building,” he said, looking up. Narrow, but several stories, and a bit of garden in the front, it was a typical Mayfaire dwelling, but the house had been refitted a few times in a more modern style.

“Be it ever so humble -- not that any of my recent ancestors could be accused of any such virtue,” Tony added.

He could practically _feel_ Jarvis judging him as the door swung open.

“Killian actually stumbled into some good entertainment,” Tony said, forestalling the butler’s customary greeting. “Really, the most talented troupe I’ve seen in years. Mother would have been beside herself. I’ve invited them to guest for a while -- you’ll see to the arrangements, won’t you, Jarvis? This is Mr. Barnes; he’s with the troupe. He’s come early to advise us on situating their leader, who’s fallen ill. I’m afraid I rushed him away before he could get his things -- can we find some clothes for him until his trunk can be delivered? I’m sure Rhodey left a few things here that would fit him.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said. “The laurel bedchamber is well situated for a guest tonight. If you’ll let me know how many ladies and gentlemen we’ll be housing, I’ll see to getting the rooms cleaned and heated before their arrival.”

“We have an even split right now,” Mr. Barnes told Jarvis. “Six ladies and six gentlemen. We’re well used to bunking in together, but Mr. Rogers will need a room with as few drafts as possible. If that’s not too much trouble?”

“If it won’t offend,” Tony put in, “I thought Mr. Rogers might do well in the nursery. It’s got an excellent fireplace, and there’s enough of a view from the windows to be soothing to someone who’s bedbound. And of course, there aren’t any children in the house to trouble him.”

Mr. Barnes chewed his lip for a moment, then shrugged. "Stevie’ll go where I put him, if he has any sense, a thing for which I am sometimes not convinced. He’s slight of stature, and prone to taking offense where none is meant, but he won’t trouble you with it.”

“Perhaps Mr. Rogers should take the master’s suite, then, and I’ll embrace the nostalgia of returning to the nursery.”

“Your lordship,” Jarvis protested.

“I’m only kidding,” Tony sighed. “The master is likely too drafty for an ailing man, in any case. We’re in the process of having all the windows reglazed,” he added to Bucky, “but only about half done so far -- the glazier can only move so quickly -- so in the meantime, some of the windows are suffering from old seals. But the laurel room has excellent curtains; you’ll be quite comfortable, I have no doubt.”

Mr. Barnes gave Tony a faint sort of smile. “I’m sure I’ll be quite warm,” he assured them. “It’s certainly better than a painted wagon in mid-winter.”

“I should imagine so.” Tony suppressed a shiver. How such a talented singer and actor could have suffered such an indignity was entirely beyond his understanding. “Why don’t I show you up, and leave Jarvis to make the arrangements for tomorrow?”

There went the old butler; there was nothing particular that Tony could point to. Jarvis would never be so rude as to roll his eyes. But he didn’t need to; there was a tip to his chin and a way he didn’t quite scowl that let Tony know he was in disgrace.

Or at least, that Jarvis could wish that Tony would take more care in the selection of his companions. An opera singer was something somewhat like a fine racehorse. Not really welcome in the house.

But Jarvis would never say that.

In fact, Tony was probably just projecting. He could well imagine what _Howard_ would have said, if he knew. Rolling in his grave hard enough to make an electric current, that was a fact.

It was that image, in fact, which gave Tony enough resolve to ignore the butler’s disapproval. Anything that infuriated his father had to be a worthy undertaking, to Tony’s mind. “This way,” he told Mr. Barnes, gesturing toward the stair. “Thank you, Jarvis, I know I can always rely upon you.”

“Of course, sir,” Jarvis said.

Mr. Barnes gave Tony the nod, waiting until he was a step up before climbing the stairs himself. Well, according to the ridiculous rules, the gentleman should be on the lower step. But practically, Mr. Barnes was a good deal taller and broader than Tony was, so perhaps the opposite rule applied. 

The whole thing was ridiculous. Etiquette. Personally, Tony thought whoever was in a greater hurry should go first.

Anyway, how could Mr. Barnes go ahead when he didn’t know where they were going? Tony shook his head as he turned out into the landing. “You’re just down here,” he said, going to the door and opening it. “If it suits your purpose. Is there anything you need tonight?”

Mr. Barnes stopped in the doorway, looking at Tony with those intense, silver eyes. “You’d really just-- let me stay. No obligations, no favors. An honest appreciation of the arts?” He appeared torn, somehow. Conflicted. But there was no hesitation in the way he met Tony’s gaze, as if reading him like a script.

“Yes, of course,” Tony said. Obviously, it hadn’t escaped Tony’s notice that Mr. Barnes was a beautiful man; obviously he had wondered what it would be like to accept such favors. But Tony wasn’t an utter cad. He wouldn’t make an offer and call in a debt only after it had been accepted. Or press his suit where it wasn’t wanted. “If you might consent to another performance -- nothing so lavish as a full production, perhaps just a few favored songs -- then I would, indeed, be entirely in your debt.”

“I must be out of my mind,” Mr. Barnes said, voice soft and wondering. “For the first time, the choice is utterly, completely mine, and I find it renders you unusually attractive. And you were already at the pinnacle. You are the sort of man I expect Michaelangelo used to model his heroes. I keep thinking I should walk away, but you’re so-- compelling.”

Tony blinked, his mind working unusually slowly as he tried to understand what Mr. Barnes was saying. Did that mean... “I-- do forgive me if I’m misunderstanding, but do I understand that you are... issuing an invitation?”

“There’s nothing else, no one else,” Mr. Barnes said, “that I’d want to invite--” He reached out a hand, brushing his knuckles very lightly over Tony’s cheek. 

Tony’s breath stuttered in his lungs. He put his hand over Mr. Barnes’, pressing it more firmly to his face, then turned his head to kiss the palm, brushing his lips over it, granting himself the barest taste. “I should be glad to accept.”

“I confess, I’m relieved to hear it,” Mr. Barnes said. “I couldn’t decide if what I saw in your face was desire, or just a reflection of myself.” His thumb slid over Tony’s lip. Tugging Tony in, closer, that thumb pushing Tony’s chin up to accept his kiss. “Will you, then, take me to bed?”

“Gladly,” Tony murmured, pushing closer still, nudging Mr. Barnes until they were entirely in the room and he could gently kick the door closed behind them, and lock it, all without taking his eyes from Mr. Barnes’ face. “More than gladly. You’re so beautiful, I didn’t dare to think you might--” He shook his head and closed the few inches that separated them, claiming that lush mouth, surrendering to it.

“I’m a possession,” Mr. Barnes said. “A pretty plaything, a trophy. I know my place, I know what I am. And no one I have ever known has looked at me like you do.” He swayed, leaning in to kiss Tony again, the length of his back curving as he fit himself against Tony’s body. Demanding and urgent, lush and luxurious; he kissed like he sang. Giving everything over to the moment, the music, the movement. He pushed one thigh between Tony’s, heat baking off that skin, barely covered by a thin linen tunic.

More, more, more, his hands urged, gripping at Tony’s shoulder, rubbing against Tony’s back, as if he could map out every inch of skin. He licked his way into Tony’s mouth, delving deep, claiming him, remapping him. Changing him. It lasted only a few moments before he broke off to breathe, panting, but in that moment, Tony was lost.

_[Click here to skip the smuts...]_

“You are a miracle,” Tony countered, breathless. “Talented and beautiful and clever and-- oh,” he moaned as Mr. Barnes’ thigh rocked against him, insistent and needy. “Mr. Barnes, you are not a possession, but you are a treasure.”

“Bucky,” he said, gently. “You’ve had your tongue in my mouth, I think you can call me familiar.”

“Bucky?” Tony repeated, somewhat bemused. It wasn’t as elegant a name as he’d have guessed. Some lingering childhood nickname, perhaps -- and Tony was charmed all over again that Mr. Barnes -- that _Bucky_ \-- had chosen to give him a name that was not merely familiar but intimate. “Let me be Tony for you, then.” He twisted, backing toward the bed and pulling Bucky along with him.

“Tony,” Bucky agreed. His hands were quick and clever, pushing Tony’s evening jacket off, where it fell heedlessly to the floor. The cravat went next, unwound from Tony’s neck, and he leaned forward to press his lips to the bit of skin exposed there, just at the base of Tony’s throat, the dip right over his breastbone. Another button, and his collar opened. “Amber, cardamon, cinnamon… and grapefruit? An interesting scent. Definitely French. Like lazy mornings and long nights.”

“You have an excellent nose,” Tony praised. “I must admit I like the idea of a long night followed by a lazy morning with you.” He unfastened his cuffs, began unbuttoning his shirt, letting his head loll back, offering his throat to more of those sweet kisses.

“Sounds delicious,” Bucky said, his voice low and teasing, and his hands were busy on Tony’s shirt, tugging the fabric until he pulled the long tail out, fingers grazing Tony’s bare back. Light caresses against Tony’s waist, his ribs, up his spine. A moment later, those hands disappeared and Bucky was shedding his costume, the leather armored chest piece. He balanced on one foot to untie the laces of his sandals; they’d been pulled so tight the man’s leg was adorned by red grooves against his skin.

Tony dropped to his knees to touch those marks, soothing what had to be an ache from the pressure. He glanced up at Bucky’s expression, eyes round with shock, and smiled, planting a kiss on the well-muscled thigh in front of him.

Wracked by a full-body shudder, Bucky’s head lolled back, showing off his throat, and his fingers went to Tony’s hair, not quite pulling, but a tender ache through the tousled curls. “Oh, _god_ ,” Bucky murmured.

Tony hummed in agreement -- the man before him had certainly been created by divine inspiration. He slid his hands up Bucky’s thighs, under the hem of the short tunic, teasing at the edge of the trews his fingers found underneath. “What do you like best?” Tony wondered, pressing more kisses to Bucky’s thighs, nuzzling at the tantalizing shape of Bucky’s cock through the thin layers of fabric.

Bucky looked down, his eyes wide and luminous in the darkness. “Want to feel the weight of you--” he stumbled, pulling Tony to his feet. He turned them before letting himself collapse onto the bed, spread starfish as if waiting for Tony to pin him down. “I don’t know-- how to talk to you. I haven’t read the script. Ill prepared, but wishing the best performance.”

“No script, only improvisation around a theme,” Tony said. He slid into the welcoming vee of Bucky’s thighs, pinning Bucky’s hips to the bed with his own. “Speak however you like, so long as you are honest.” What was it that Killian had said? _They can lie to you with their entire body_. “Don’t pretend to be pleased when you’re not, or... I like to think myself a reasonably attentive lover, but I can’t make it good for you if you don’t help me.”

Bucky shook his head, a wry, almost cynical smile on his face. As if he didn’t believe Tony-- or couldn’t. “Keep talking sweet like that, and I’m sure to be pleased,” he said. He drew Tony in again, mouth seeking Tony’s. Those plush, soft lips took little tastes of Tony’s mouth, quick, delicate kisses, tender and sweet. Under him, Bucky’s hips rose, pushing against Tony’s leg, the length of his desire obvious. 

As if the few sips couldn’t sate him, Bucky suddenly gripped Tony hard, rolled them over, and pressed in, stropping himself against Tony’s body. Catlike and graceful, and he took possession of Tony’s mouth with a dark, serious need. It wasn’t a mere kiss, but like being devoured, taken apart and put back together.

Finally, Bucky drew back to breathe, resting his forehead against Tony’s.

Tony wondered at that hunger -- surely a man as talented and beautiful as Bucky wasn’t starved for affection. Though if he’d been living with the troupe for a while, perhaps privacy was difficult to come by.

Tony worked his hands up under the tunic, feeling the flex of muscle under Bucky’s skin. “Will you take this off? Let me see you?”

Bucky shed the rest of his clothes, arching his back to let Tony look his fill. He was beautiful; body thick with muscle, skin silky smooth. Up close, there was evidence of stage makeup, blending the paler parts of his body so his tanned skin didn’t stand out so much in his scanty costume, his thighs beautiful, and showing the faintest stubble. He must have them shaved close, again out of aesthetic for the opera.

“You’re so lovely,” Tony sighed, stroking fingertips lightly down that muscled chest. He tipped his chin to draw Bucky into another kiss, exploring what he could reach of Bucky’s skin, the delicate dip of Bucky’s collarbones, the slight peak of nipples, the ridged firmness of the ribs. 

Bucky shivered under his hand, back curving as he shifted, trying to direct Tony’s hands where he wanted them.

That gorgeous cock of his, upright and proud, jolting delicately with each movement, as if trying to get Tony’s attention. “Oh--” Bucky made a soft, mewling sound when Tony brushed over it, just the merest caress. He swallowed, throat working, and it seemed to be an effort of will to open his eyes, to meet Tony’s gaze. But once he did, he couldn’t seem to look away. Watched Tony, as Tony touched him, stroked him. Bucky’s mouth dropped open, lower lip shiny with saliva. “Tony--”

“Yes,” Tony said, offering a smile. Bucky’s eyes were wide, the pupils so large in the darkness that Tony had to remember the pretty blue-gray of them. “I’m here. Tell me what you want, Bucky.”

“Just like this,” Bucky said, rocking backward, his ass brushing against Tony’s cock, his whole body rolling like a wave at sea. “Like this, where I can see all of you.”

Tony hummed his assent, hips rocking involuntarily up in search of friction and heat. “If it’s all of me you wish, you’ll have to lift up a little--” He gave another teasing little stroke to Bucky’s cock, then started tugging at the fastening of his trousers.

Bucky knelt up, giving Tony room, his hands a complete distraction, running up and down Tony’s chest, leaning closer to nip at Tony’s earlobe. His fingers speared into Tony’s hair, caressing, scritching at his scalp. All in all, it was a wonder Tony didn’t rip his clothes in the effort of getting out of them.

Finally, he managed to wriggle out of his trousers and trews and drop them both to the floor, and then there was nothing between them, only the sublime sensation of skin on skin. Tony couldn’t help a groan of pleasure, even as he reached to return those caresses, to seek out Bucky’s most sensitive places.

He slid his hands over Bucky’s thighs and hips, squeezing at the muscle there, marveling in how firm it was, how perfectly Bucky’s hips fit in his hands. And further yet, to tease lightly at the crack of Bucky’s ass, a portion of his mind already working to try to figure out the closest and most discreet route for oil-- but Bucky’s crack was, startlingly, already slick. “What--”

Bucky flushed, his gaze going somewhere over Tony’s head. “A courtesy to Lord Killian, if I failed to elude him,” he said, voice thick with something that seemed like both shame and unvarnished truth.

A courtesy indeed. Self-preservation, more likely. If Bucky had been forced to remain in Killian’s home through the night, Killian would certainly have cornered him eventually. And Tony doubted that Killian was the sort of man who cared for the discomfort of anyone other than himself.

But Tony’s heart ached with the understanding that this was something Bucky had known to prepare for -- possibly, _probably_ through experience.

He blew out his breath and lifted his head to kiss the soft skin of Bucky’s throat, to suck on it gently, to nibble and blow at the rim of Bucky’s ear, until Bucky had forgotten, or at least pushed aside, all thought of Killian and returned, wholly, to this moment. Tony waited until Bucky’s hips were again rolling in pleasure and then gently pushed against the rim of Bucky’s hole, testing the slickness and teasing without _quite_ penetrating, yet.

On Bucky’s part, he had incredible control, keeping his thighs at the same level, despite the fact that the muscles were quaking. He reached behind him, hand curling carefully around Tony’s shaft, as if to lead him in, but didn’t, just stroked with soft, eager fingers, allowing the tease, even drawing it out. 

Tony let the heat of Bucky’s body draw him in, slowly, testing Bucky’s reactions, feeling out how much Bucky needed to be loosened. “Oh, you feel so good,” Tony breathed. “Hot and sweet and slick.”

Bucky made a soft, eager noise, and then struck an opera-esque pose, his chest thrust out, all indignant eye and pride. “How can you tell, you’re not doing anything,” Bucky said, his voice rich with teasing sarcasm, and then, so fast Tony almost imagined he saw it, a quick flinch. Bucky wasn’t sure Tony wouldn’t be offended? Or worried that he would be?

Tony laughed softly, hoping to banish that fear. “Is that so?” he teased back. “Well, perhaps I’d better do something, then.” He pressed deeper, thrusting carefully with one finger for a long moment before carefully working in a second. “Is that all right? Don’t let me hurt you, please.”

“You know,” Bucky said, as if they were having a conversation, “I don’t believe you will. I’m not sure you _can_.” It was a simple enough thing, but the trust there was-- humbling. “I don’t--” Bucky inhaled with sudden shock as Tony found that place inside him, his face going slack with pleasure. “Oh, oh, that--”

“Ah, look at you. Just when I thought you couldn’t possibly be any more beautiful.” Tony couldn’t drag his eyes from Bucky’s face, what little of it he could see in the dim room, the utter bliss projected there.

Bucky bit his lip, rocking back on Tony’s fingers, utterly lost, utterly gorgeous, completely undone. As if he didn’t even remember he was supposed to be doing anything-- taking pleasure and letting himself take it, tension ratcheting up until he was panting for breath, swaying. “Tony-- Tony, please-- please, I need--”

“Yes, darling, what is it? What do you need? Let me give it to you.” Tony craned his neck to scatter kisses over Bucky’s face and jaw, nuzzling at Bucky’s ear. “Anything you want,” he promised.

“Yes,” Bucky said, and he pushed Tony down onto the bed, one hand locked around his wrist, holding him down on the mattress. That aching hunger was back in his gaze as he tugged himself free of Tony’s fingers, lined them up. For someone who had started their lovemaking, not shy, but submissive, Bucky was almost feral now, straddling Tony’s hips, his knees squeezing, and then impaled himself on Tony’s cock. “Yes, anything. _Everything_.”

Groaning with the urgency of his need, Bucky ground down, with no hesitation or deliberation, until Tony was in him to the hilt.

Tony couldn’t help but let out a moan as Bucky’s tight heat engulfed him, drew him in. “Oh God...” His free hand fumbled around Bucky’s hip and made its way to curl around Bucky’s cock, the oil clinging to his fingers making everything slide more easily. “Bucky, yes, that’s perfect, darling, just...”

Bucky paused to adjust, then rocked, riding Tony like he was a show pony, body flexing and eager, muscles squeezing and straining. He set an almost punishing pace, forcing Tony to work for it, to keep up, baring his teeth in a grin as Tony met him, thrust for thrust.

“Harder,” he urged, settling against Tony’s hips. “I want it, want it all.”

God, this beautiful man would be the death of him. Tony braced his heels and drove up into Bucky’s body in a fast, hard thrust, and then again, and again, straining to hold the rhythm even as his body threatened to shiver apart. He was determined to see Bucky reach the peak before he let himself tumble over that edge.

Like a race, or a game; something. The competitive edge had been reached. Bucky seemed almost as determined as Tony, both straining with their own instincts, the desire to please their partner, and at one point, Bucky burst into joyous laughter, shaking his head at how ridiculous they were being. The jolting of their bodies together was too much, and Tony clenched, trying not to--

“Oh, god,” Bucky cried out, and he practically collapsed as he came, warm spurts of come splattering over Tony’s chest. Bucky tucked his face against Tony’s throat, moaning his pleasure, and then bit down on Tony’s shoulder, sparks of pain adding spice to Tony’s pleasure.

Tony gasped and thrust upward once more, twice, and then came with a rush of heat like sparks racing through his blood to settle in his fingertips and toes. “Bucky, good gods...” Suddenly exhausted, he curled his fingers into Bucky’s hair, soft and warm.

Bucky snuggled on him, heedless of the mess they were making, giving off little soft, satisfied noises. 

Tony closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the moment, to doze a little while everything was soft-edged and warm, where the puff of Bucky’s breath skated across his shoulder and those sweet noises echoed in his ear, definitive proof that he was not alone.

Some undetermined time passed, basking in the glow and heat of their lovemaking, and then Bucky groaned, shifting and pulling himself up and off of Tony. “Your man servant left us something in the hall,” he murmured. “Let me clean up and I’ll get it for you.”

Tony didn’t quite flinch. “What? When? I didn’t hear anything.”

“Not long,” Bucky assured him. “I have sharp senses. It’s all well. He knew enough not to disturb us.” He stretched luxuriously and large, hands over his head and then swung all the way down to touch his toes, his back popping and crackling, before padding over, completely nude, to the washstand, where he made use of a towel and the water there.

Tony couldn’t help watching, though now he was worrying somewhat over what Jarvis would say to him in the morning. Oh, not in words; Jarvis would never be so ill-mannered as to openly chide him. But there would be more of those _looks_.

Bucky opened the door and pulled in the small bundle; a change of clothes and a few bathing sheets. 

“Ah, well, those are for you,” Tony surmised, “as I have more than enough of those things in my own rooms.” His own rooms, for which he must depart soon. A late-night tryst was one thing, but if Tony was in any bed other than his own when his valet came in to dress him... Well, it wouldn’t be the first scandal Tony had caused, but it was bad for the servants’ morale.

“He’s been with the family a long time,” Bucky suggested. “He wants what’s best for you. I don’t blame him. You’re a rare man, for a lord, Tony Stark.”

Tony shook his head, because he shouldn’t be praised for treating other people like... well, like _people_. He knew it was a rare enough trait amongst the nobility, but it _shouldn’t_ have been. “He practically raised me,” Tony said instead. “He and the cook. I think they forget sometimes that I’m not twelve anymore.”

“Like the troupe,” Bucky said. “We’re family. It has nothing to do with blood, but bonds of affection. They’re to be treasured.”

“I suppose so,” Tony agreed. He stretched, then reluctantly got up and began to drag on his clothes. If he stayed in this bed much longer, he would fall asleep in it.

Bucky laughed at him, light and easy. “Here, my lord,” he said, gathering up Tony’s clothes, folding them into a loose bundle. “If I’d been thinking, I would have suggested the use of your room, that you might rest, after.” He handed Tony the shirt, jacket, waistcoat and stockings, and then quickly buttoned up Tony’s trousers, his hands as steady as any valet’s.

Practice with costume changes, Tony guessed, unable to look away from those nimble fingers. “One of us would have had to move,” he pointed out. “And you’re the guest.” He dragged on the shirt but only did up a few buttons. He wasn’t likely to encounter anyone in the hall, and he’d have to take everything off again as soon as he reached his room.

“You’ve been _very_ attentive to my comfort,” Bucky teased. “Go sleep. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

A dismissal if Tony had ever heard one. He chuckled a little. “Perhaps.” He hesitated for a moment, tempted to ask for another kiss, but that-- that was for couples and lovers, and Bucky had offered no suggestion that he thought of this as anything so complex as that. A shared moment of pleasure, that was all. He gathered himself and turned toward the door. “Good night, Mr. Barnes. Sleep well.”

Bucky reached out, as if his arm was moving entirely on its own accord, grabbed Tony’s hand, and pressed a kiss to the palm, a sweet echo of Tony’s first kiss. “Dream of me.”

Tony felt certain that he would.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills 27dragons' Bucky Barnes Bingo square C1 - Secret Relationship

Bucky was going to take the coward’s way out, he decided. Bucky dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to him, had a pleasant breakfast with Lord Stark -- and was given the distinct impression by the staff that the lord rarely rose for the morning meal -- and then discussed the accommodations for the troupe. He got a hack carriage and before long he was walking down the street toward Killian’s manor. 

He didn’t feel that knocking on the door, not even the servants entrance, was going to net him any positive gain.

Fortunately, the wall around the building wasn’t too high, easy to scale, and he made his way to the wagons. They always left one of the younger stagehands with their caravan, to make sure nothing happened to the sets or costumes that were their livelihood.

He roused Miles Morales and set him into the manor to wake the troupe. “Bring them out, quiet as you can,” he said. “I want no truck with his lordship, but I’ve found a better situation for us, where Steve can be safe and cared for.”

Morales tipped his head at Bucky, eyes narrowing. “That where you got to, last night?”

“Everyone knows, opera singers have the morals of alley cats,” Bucky said, lightly. “Can’t help myself, and all that. Was his lordship-- very cross?” Did he take it out on anyone else? Bucky grimaced; he’d been so concerned with protecting himself-- and Killian had been so determined in his pursuit, it didn’t occur to Bucky that he might have abused someone else from the troupe. Not that Natasha would have let him at the more vulnerable members. She was vicious that way. Bucky was prodigiously proud of her.

“Nah. Not to say he wouldn't've, but when Natasha realized you’d disappeared, she passed the word for the rest of us to slip out of sight, too. So where’s this new situation?”

“We’re going uptown,” Bucky said. “Mayfaire. Lord Stark has agreed to house us until accommodations can be made for the winter. Being in the city like that, we can get a doctor to come in and see to Steve.” Most city doctors would not venture out of the city to see a patient who didn’t already own three houses and land.

Morales nodded and reached for his cap. “I’ll fetch ‘em. We sneakin’ away?”

"As much as we can," Bucky said. "We don't owe his lordship anything, but he might calculate the bill differently."

“Got it. Super-sneaky, then. Good thing we packed up the stage last night. You should probably stay here, out of sight.” The kid tucked his cap on and ducked out of the wagon.

He’d been gone for no more than five minutes when another figure climbed in. Bucky tensed for a moment, and then sagged when he recognized Natasha.

“We’re going to finish the Season with Stark?” she asked mildly, crouching down next to Bucky.

“I expect so,” Bucky said. “He’s a generous host and being in the city will make it easier on all of us.” He drew Natasha in to a hug, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Tell me I’m not leading us wrong.”

“He could be very good for the troupe,” Natasha said, studying Bucky. “Is he your patron, now?”

“He hasn’t formally made an offer,” Bucky said, slowly. “But I’ll take it, if he does.” Bucky thought their night together had been-- beyond incredible. Tony had cared about Bucky’s pleasure, cared about him as a person, a person with dreams and hopes and fears. Not the sort of thing he was used to being on the receiving end of; not from a Lord. The aristocracy tended to treat the lower classes as some sort of mobile furniture. Useful, sometimes expensive, but ultimately, a tool or toy. 

“ _Formally_ ,” Natasha repeated. “So you did sleep with him. No, don’t even bother answering, it’s all over your face. Be careful.”

“Careful,” Bucky scoffed. “Natasha, it’s so standard as to practically have its own legal standing in court.” In fact, he had heard of singers and companions who had successfully sued their protectors for leaving them poor, or in disgrace. 

“I don’t mean to be careful with your pocketbook,” she said, and a faint little crease formed between her brows. “I mean to be careful with your heart.”

Bucky laughed, but it wasn’t funny. “It’s the only thing that truly belongs to me,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m not like to give it away so easily.” That was, perhaps, an exaggeration, if not a lie. Bucky could see it-- Tony would be so easy to love. But in the end, even if he were fond, Bucky could never mean anything to Tony. No more so than a beloved pet.

Bucky knew his place.

That little frown hadn’t eased, and Natasha opened her mouth to say more, but the shuffle of approaching feet warned them that the rest of the troupe was imminent. “Just... be careful,” she said, and went to go make sure Steve was well-bundled for the short trip.

Bucky went to see the rest of the group settled, spoke softly with the gatekeeper, left his regards with the housekeeper for his Lordship.

At least Killian hadn’t roused to come demand an accounting. And he certainly wouldn’t chase them to London; that wouldn’t do his reputation any good. Hosting them for a short time would gain Killian all the social credit he required, anything more would look _obsessed_ , and he wouldn't want that.

Even if it were true.

Perhaps especially if it were true.

Bucky was the last one out of the gate, and he happened to look back at the manor house.

To see Killian standing at the window that overlooked the drive. Fist clenched, staring down at them.

Bucky shuddered, leaped onto the back of his wagon. The sooner they were away, the better.

Killian did not look like a man who lost with grace.

The caravan took most of the afternoon to make the ten mile journey; not nearly as well sprung as Tony’s carriage, they moved as slow as an ox-cart.

Jarvis’s arrangements had included the rental of an entire carriage house for the wagons; Bucky shuddered at the expense, glad the accounts had already been settled for that, at least. They had a fortnight’s stay, and at worst, they could sleep in the wagons, if Tony turned out to be a bad penny.

Steve was worse by the time they managed to get him to Stark’s townhome and in through the servant’s entrance in the back.

Jarvis, leading them through the halls, frowned at Steve with concern. “I will summon the doctor straightaway,” he promised, “as soon as I have shown you to your rooms.”

“Thank you for your kindness,” Bucky said. “He always gets a bit pecky in the winter, but we’ve had to move on a few times; it’s not good for him, but I’m hoping--” Bucky let it trail off, not wanting to presume. Steve squeezed his hand, and Bucky nodded. Time to shut up and accept what happened happened.

“His lordship has made it clear that you are all to be considered his guests and afforded every courtesy,” Jarvis said. “I certainly would not leave a guest in want of a doctor’s aid -- or one of the staff, if it came to that.” He opened a door and it was unmistakably a nursery, but there was a roaring fire, and the drawn curtains looked out over a small but well-maintained garden.

“Lord Stark is all things kind and generous,” Bucky said, and he meant it. “We’re extremely grateful.”

Jarvis hummed a little at that, and Bucky wasn’t sure if it meant _see that you are_ or _I’m glad you value him so highly_. He didn’t elaborate, just turned to show the group the next room that had been prepared.

When they’d reached the end of the row, Jarvis fixed Bucky with a sharp glance. “I am instructed that if you would prefer to remain in the laurel room, it is yours for the duration of your stay.”

It still wasn’t an official offer -- and Bucky rather thought that if he refused it, decided to bunk in with the rest of the troupe, that Tony would accept that decision as well. On the other hand, taking the room was all but declaring an intention to become Tony’s companion.

_Be careful with your heart._

It was a season, Bucky told himself. The end of winter, the spring and beginning of summer, and then the troupe would be headed south to meet other obligations. A single season. 

“I-- I thank you, I would like that very much,” Bucky said. Jarvis might not approve, but he would let it alone. Like Bucky himself, the butler would know his place.

“Very well, Mr. Barnes. The footmen will bring your trunk along. I’m sure you would like to freshen up and make sure your compatriots are settling in well. I will see about sending for the doctor for Mr. Rogers.” Jarvis ducked his head stiffly -- not a bow, but somewhat more than a nod -- and took his leave.

Bucky opened the door to the laurel room. He’d only stayed the one night, it shouldn’t feel so much like _coming home._ Maybe it was the idea -- the ideal, really -- of being able to make his own choices, even if they were bad choices. The illusion of choice.

The bed linens had already been changed; any evidence of his affair were already being washed away by the household laundress. 

It would be all right, Bucky promised himself.

The troupe was safe.

Bucky was safe.

For a few months, perhaps. And that was as much as anyone could ask.

There was a knock at the door, though Bucky had left it standing open, and Tony said, “Everyone settling in?” He was leaning against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, the other hanging loose at his side. He was dressed much less formally than the previous evening -- trousers and a shirt, and the shirt’s sleeves had been rolled up nearly to Tony’s elbows. There was a dark smear of something like grease along his forearm, and the look he was giving Bucky was direct and dark and hungry, utterly at odds with his casual tone.

“Yes, my lord,” Bucky said, trying not to be too flip -- he’d almost forgotten who he was, with Tony. Tony had allowed it, but maybe it was better not to make assumptions. “The suites are very comfortable, everyone seems well pleased.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And are you well pleased, also, Mr. Barnes?”

“I can’t imagine not being so,” Bucky said. “You’re very generous.” He took a step closer, almost entirely without meaning to; as if Tony was some sort of magnet and Bucky was a pin, helpless to resist.

“I am doubly glad for that. Perhaps you will, then, continue to call me Tony. At least when it is only the two of us?” He smiled just a little, one eyebrow ticking up.

“It’ll be our little secret,” Bucky said, “if you would like to call me Bucky.” He hesitated, then added, “Tony.”

Tony’s smile got a little wider at that. “Bucky. I had hoped for a moment to speak with you before I go introduce myself to your friends. May I?”

“Please, do come in,” Bucky said. “I-- I’m happy to see you again.”

“As am I,” Tony said. He straightened and stepped into the room. He closed the door -- not all the way, but mostly, to give them some privacy without appearing entirely indisposed. “Mr.-- Bucky. Let me assure you, immediately, that your response here in no way affects my invitation to you and your troupe. That is wholly a separate thing, borne out of my honest appreciation of the arts, and nothing to do with whatever... might. Be between you and I, personally.”

“I believe you,” Bucky said. Which he might have said anyway; lords did not like to have their word questioned. But in point of fact, Bucky did believe him. Tony actually looked… well, not precisely nervous, but in some doubt as to Bucky’s response, which was not the usual case. “We’re grateful for your care and courtesy. I, especially, as Mr. Rogers will never admit to anything as mundane as gratitude. He can be a bit of a rakehell when he’s of mind. But-- everything you’ve done on our behalf is. Well, I’m very grateful.” He took a breath, trying to organize his thoughts. “But my gratitude has-- nothing to do with whatever might be between us. That is, for me, also, a separate matter.”

“Good, that’s good.” Tony pulled his hand out of his pocket and rubbed absently at the smear on his arm. “I had hoped, then, that you might be willing to consider an... arrangement, between us.” He glanced toward the door and took another step closer to Bucky. “Last night was sublime, in more than one respect. And I believe I flatter myself that you were not entirely displeased. And as my companion, there are protections and assistance I can offer you that I could not provide otherwise, not without risking my standing.” He shrugged and smiled wryly. “It’s not very romantic of me to say so, I know. But life is not an opera.”

“And we should all be grateful for it,” Bucky said. “I die on stage many times in a year, my life starts anew, I am reborn, someone else. Not ideal, in society.” He gave Tony a wink. “It can only be a temporary arrangement, of course. The troupe is expected in the south, after the summer.”

“Of course,” Tony said quickly. “You are, always, free to dissolve the arrangement at your will, for whatever reason seems best to you. I don’t want to own you, or--” He waved one hand as if to encompass any number of distasteful possibilities. “But companionship -- true companionship -- is something I am often in need of. I want you, of course I do, I won’t lie about that. But more than that... I _like_ you, what little I’ve been permitted to know. So I ask... Will you have me as your patron? Would you be my companion?”

_You have to know I will say yes_ , Bucky thought. He wasn’t such a fool, and at least, Tony had been tender and attentive to Bucky’s needs; not a thing he was much familiar with. But the troupe all knew, they took their pleasure when they could, where they could. And eating, and having a roof over one’s head was a sort of pleasure as well.

But maybe… true companionship. At least for a little while. It was a nice dream. And eventually, Tony would put Bucky aside. For a wife, or for the next pretty thing to cross his path.

And in the meanwhile, Bucky would take what he could from this remarkable man. What he could take of this man.

“Yes, I-- I would like that above all else,” Bucky said. He offered Tony his hand, for Tony to shake, or to kiss his knuckles, Bucky wasn’t sure. But his knees almost went out when Tony turned his hand up and kissed his palm.

“Thank you,” Tony said, and actually sounded like he meant it, that he was truly grateful. “I believe it is traditional to commence such arrangements with a gift. I hope this meets with your approval.” He produced a thin, flat box and offered it to Bucky with an air of formality.

Bucky took the box, because he would never, ever be so stupid, but there was a brief, tiny, loud part of himself that didn’t want to take it. He didn’t want this to be a-- contract. Something he did because he was paid and cosseted and pampered. He wanted to be able to kiss a man he was attracted to just because he wanted to.

But want didn’t pay the bills.

Tony, he was sure, would not have noticed any hesitation. He lifted the lid to inspect the offering. What was his body worth-- to Tony?

It was a pocketwatch chain, each link perfectly crafted and smooth and shining silver. The fob end was inlaid with mother of pearl, and there were several long links decorated with an inlaid stone of deep red.

“If you don’t like it,” Tony said nervously, “I’ll be happy to replace it. I don’t... I don’t know what your tastes are, yet.”

Bucky glanced from the proffered piece of jewelry to Tony’s face. He really was nervous, as if expecting Bucky to refuse, or hold out for something flashier. And it was a lovely piece. “It’s beautiful,” Bucky said, truthfully. “And a good way to think of you, every time I check my watch.” 

“Yes?” Tony hesitated a moment longer, as if not sure Bucky was telling the truth, and then took a breath and nodded. “Good. That’s good, then.” He smiled, breathless and sincere. “Good. I’m-- I suppose we’ll need to talk about details, at some point. But Jarvis told me he’d sent for the doctor for your friend, so you should probably be there, I expect.”

“There aren’t terribly many details,” Bucky said. “I’m cheaper than a companion in town, at least. You needn’t provide me my own domicile. But if the wagons fall into disrepair, I might need some credit forwarded to a blacksmith. Whatever clothes you’d like me to wear, when I entertain you. A moderate allowance. Less than you pay your butler, if you’d like me to remain in his good graces.”

“It seems like so little,” Tony said. “But it will do to start, I suppose. Will you dine with me tonight?”

“I will look forward to it,” Bucky said. The food, at least, would be very good for a while. He’d have to be careful. If he were playing different parts, he would not look amiss if he got wider, but until he was of age that playing the hero would no longer be appropriate, he needed to stay slim. The audience expected it. Also, Janet would kill him if she had to let out all his costumes. That was a lot of sewing.

“Tony--” He leaned closer. “Will-- if you wish it? May I kiss you?”

“Please,” Tony said. It came out on a rushed breath, as if he’d been holding back the request himself. He curled his hand around Bucky’s jaw, thumb lightly stroking Bucky’s cheek. “I’ve wanted nothing else since I walked into this room.”

Bucky let himself lean into it, tongue flicking out to taste Tony’s upper lip. Used the sudden inhale of air to slide into it. Tony kissed like he had nothing to prove and all the time in the world to do it with. Amazing. Bucky could kiss him for hours and not be tired of it. He was the perfect height, too, just a little shorter than Bucky, so he wasn’t bending to reach, but that Tony went up on his toes. Which had the side effect of making Bucky feel somehow protective _of_ Tony. Which, of course, was ridiculous. But it was a heady feeling, and Bucky enjoyed it.

Tony made a soft sound, almost wounded, and then stepped back, just half a step, his eyes fixed on Bucky’s. “I should...” He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Work. We both have duties to attend, as much as I might wish otherwise.” He reached for Bucky’s hand again, squeezed. “Dinner? Or if you have need of me before then, I’ll be in the study, most likely.”

“I will count the moments,” Bucky teased, “and I will look very fine with my new watchfob. Steve-- er, Mr. Rogers-- will be terribly jealous.”

Tony smiled. “You will look very fine regardless of what you wear,” he assured Bucky. “Soon -- tomorrow or the next day -- we will see about getting you measured for some clothes. Yes?”

“I will place myself at your immediate disposal,” Bucky said. Which was quite true; Bucky loved having new clothes, and he rather thought Tony would let himself be swayed by Bucky’s opinion. Which was quite nice; Bucky’s last protector for any length of time had favored mustard yellow, which was all the fashion but made Bucky look consistently hung over.

“Good,” Tony said. “I... Work. Right. Thank you, Bucky.” He flashed that bright, happy smile, then leaned in to brush a soft kiss across Bucky’s cheek.

“Go on, keep doing that,” Bucky teased, “and neither of us will get work done this day.”

Tony laughed. “Well, can’t have that,” he said, “delicious as that sounds. Perhaps some other day.” He hesitated a moment longer, looking at Bucky as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes, and then ducked back through the door.

Bucky waited a moment, because if he followed Tony out immediately, he might be tempted to chase him down for more of those kisses.

“Duty,” Bucky told himself. “Must always come before pleasure.”


	4. Chapter 4

If anyone had asked Tony what he expected of Mr. Rogers, the troupe’s ailing leader, Tony would have guessed he would find an old man -- perhaps not quite _elderly_ , yet, but certainly older than Tony himself -- brought low by an augue or some fever, emaciated and frail.

He would have been right on precisely two counts: that Mr. Rogers was suffering from a fever, and that he appeared emaciated. There, however, ended any similarity between whatever Tony had imagined and the man propped up on half a dozen pillows in the nursery.

He was forced to pause for a moment, reevaluating his assumptions, even as his mouth produced the required pleasantries out of sheer rote habit. “Mr. Rogers, I presume. I hope the suite is to your liking? You’ll forgive the placement; Mr. Barnes especially stressed that you needed warmth, and this is the best room in the house for that.”

The man rolled his eyes, pushed irritably at the pile of pillows until he had some better position to look Tony in the eye, rather than from a lounging position. It didn’t have the desired effect, as he was panting and coughed a few times before the whole process was complete, but he was, in fact, sitting up when he said, “So you’re his new swell, then?”

“So it would seem.” Tony didn’t see any purpose to trying to hide it from Bucky’s friend. He wondered idly if the troupe took a percentage from its members’ arrangements, or if they were simply expected to do what they could for the troupe on their own. “And the troupe’s patron for the remainder of the season. Has the doctor been to see you yet?”

Rogers waved a hand at the pile of packets and unguents and oils and other sundries. “He left not long ago. Wants me to _rest_. Didn’t quite get up enough to say it’s in God’s hands now, but I could tell he wanted to.”

“Well, God’s and the apothecary’s, apparently,” Tony said, not without some humor as he looked over the mess of medication. “The troupe seems to value you highly. For their sake, then, I hope that you’re able to make a full recovery. I’m told the performance is even better with you in it, which seems to me to be a rather high bar to set, indeed.”

“If Miss Romanoff said it, you can believe it,” Rogers said, coughing again. “If Bu-- Barnes said it, he’s just being loyal, the jerk. We grew up together. He’s been dragging me around from cushy life to the road and back since we were kids.”

“Hardly seems like a recipe for good health,” Tony said. “But surely your friend’s appraisal need not be false merely because he is your friend.”

“As far as good health goes, it’s a gift I never had,” Rogers said. “I guess I missed that day in schooling. But I learned a while back, life wasn’t going to come to my bedside -- present company excluded, of course -- and I was going to have to go chase it down myself, if I wanted some.”

“And have you found the life worth the chase?” Tony wondered.

“It can be just as fine as anything,” Rogers said. “And the company is good. It’s worth the struggle.” He fingered the blankets, twisting one corner around his finger. “You aiming to take care of Mr. Barnes? Like, not just ply him with pretty clothes and fine wine, but treat him well?”

“I certainly hope so. I find his conversation most interesting, and he seems to have a good heart.”

Rogers made a vague humming sound, that was either agreement, or dubiousness. Tony didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell. It would have been laughable, really, in another situation; someone entirely dependent on Tony’s good will. Well, Rogers wasn’t threatening him, not exactly, but he did appear that he would be very cross if Tony did anything to hurt Bucky.

Which, perhaps, given that Rogers was also the playwright to any number of their performances, well, maybe Rogers had a longer arm than people would suspect.

“Trust me, I’ve no wish to make an appearance on the stage next Season as the villain of the piece,” Tony said, smiling wryly. “I intend to treat him as well as he’ll allow.”

“See that you do,” Rogers said. “He’s a good man. Too soft for this life he’s living. A good man. Anyone else would have left me behind.”

“It does seem that Mr. Barnes’ loyalty, once given, is absolute,” Tony murmured. “An admirable quality, if perhaps not always wise.”

Rogers shrugged in a very what can you do manner, then reached for his tea cup. The beverage had probably long gone cold, by the way he grimaced when he sipped. But somehow, just that moment of taking the cup, eyeing Tony over the rim, and setting it down again, Tony felt like he’d passed some sort of test.

Of what, he wasn’t quite sure.

“I suppose I should leave you to rest,” Tony said. “But if there’s anything at all you need -- books, a writing desk, cards, whatever -- you have only to ask.” He nodded toward the bellpull hanging beside the bed.

“If you’re of a mind,” Rogers said, “paper, pens, a writing desk. And quite a lot of tea. I have an idea for a new show. Also, send Na-- Miss Romanoff to me. She’s got the best penmanship.”

“Simplicity itself,” Tony agreed. “A fully-stocked writing desk and a pot of tea, within the hour. Miss Romanoff -- well, she shall come at what time best please her. I am not so foolish as to make promises for your leading lady.”

“And-- thank you,” Rogers said, as if those words hurt, coming out. “I know-- Buck would not have done what he nearly did, if not for me. Thank you. For giving us someplace else to go.”

“Lord Killian is an ass,” Tony said flatly, “who deserves neither his rank nor the affections of anyone as talented and clever as Mr. Barnes. Even had he not consented to grace me with those affections, it would have been my pleasure -- a triumph, in fact -- to have granted the troupe a safe harbor.”

Rogers nodded, as if that settled that, and no further mention of hardships or gratitude were expected or required. He didn’t bow, or even make an attempt to do so, and he’d not, in the entire conversation, extended a _my lord_ , or any other indication of rank.

Tony found he rather liked the man, even as Rogers was going out of his way to present himself as unlikeable.

* * *

There were several sets of walking hours for the various parks, fashionable, commonplace, or otherwise. There were times of day when a gentleman, seen walking with a lady, would have been as good as an announcement in the Times. There were other times when children were playing roughshod, or feeding the ducks, or whatever it was that children did, and that courting ladies and eligible men were nowhere on the scene.

And then-- well, then there were times when the demi-monde would be seen, walking about with their various protectors and patrons. When an eligible miss would not be out of range of her chaperone even for the richest and most interesting of bachelors.

That was the time when Bucky could walk the lanes, and look at the throngs of Londoners, and if the gossips saw him and tittered behind their hands, well, they were out, too.

“You look very thoughtful,” Tony said, breaking into Bucky’s ruminations. “Should I ask what you’re pondering?”

Bucky couldn’t help but look over at the man he was with. Beautiful, graceful, smart. Everything the nobility should be and so often were not. “Character study,” he said. “Every face I wear on stage, I find out here, in the world.”

The day was warm, for early spring. Not so warm that his fine new wool coat was too hot and heavy, but warm enough for strolling. Many people were outside, trying to grab the first bit of sunshine. He saw a few ladies, probably too old to be out, but were ostensibly watching younger siblings, ignore their governesses and mothers long enough to take off their bonnets and get a little sunshine on their faces.

 _Freckles_ , Bucky could see the shape of the words as the matron made them. _Lemon juice compresses, for days, can you just imagine?_

Bucky let himself repeat the words, mimicking the accents he could see, but not hear. For Tony’s amusement.

To hear that bright and beautiful laugh.

“An advantage of somewhat darker skin,” Tony said, smirking, “is that I need be less jealous of my complexion. Shall I buy you a parasol, next? Though truthfully, I think you should look charming with a few freckles on your cheeks.”

“Not at all,” Bucky said. He didn’t link his arm with Tony’s, he didn’t quite dare, but they were walking very close. “Nothing shameful in a few freckles. Or even, heavens, in getting a bit red from sun. I like being out of doors, when I can be.”

“Ah, so I should be certain to procure some cream to put on your cheeks and nose, when you’ve burnt them?” Tony laughed. “Perhaps we should arrange a picnic for the whole troupe,” he mused. “A day trip, out of the city, somewhere nice.”

Bucky grinned. “That would be lovely. Invite some friends, we’ll do improv, or practice our lines. Singing out of doors can be magnificent.”

“Would that be fun for your friends? I do intend to ask for a performance or two, but I hadn’t meant this to be one of them.”

“You should come down to our side of your grand home,” Bucky said, because truthfully, Tony hadn’t intruded very much. He’d come, introduced himself to everyone, and then, in a great show of restraint, left them alone. It had been both wonderful and strange, and everyone had been waiting for him to come around, expecting to be entertained, or written into plays, or have opinions. 

But he hadn’t, and after a few days of keeping a watchful eye out, the troupe had relaxed. Props were fixed, stage scenery painted, costumes sized up, or down, or made whole again. It had been a delight, and the whole floor had been filled with music and singing as everyone did what came naturally to them.

Tony-- had kept strictly to one meal which he shared with everyone, and Bucky’s company at night.

“You’re welcome, you know,” Bucky said, teasing. “We don’t bite.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” Tony said softly, throwing him a sly smile. “My shoulder is quite covered in toothmarks.” More soberly, he added, “I don’t want to impose. Perhaps you should set your at-home hours, so I can properly call.”

Seemed a strange thing to invite Tony to call on anyone living in his own home, but-- well, he did appreciate the respect. It wasn’t the normal thing, and no one was quite sure what to do about it. If anything.

“Well, we usually run through our current -- well, soon to be -- in the afternoons, before dinner. Singing works up an appetite and you lay a generous table.”

“I’m glad you’re finding it so. Does that mean I might impose on the rehearsals?” Tony sounded hopeful, almost wistful.

“Please do--” Bucky said, and that wasn’t even pandering. Everyone performed better with an audience, even an audience of only one. If he had to smack Clint with a playbook one more time for falling asleep before his cue, Bucky was going to pitch the man right off their makeshift stage.

“I should be delighted,” Tony said, and honestly looked like he meant it, as if watching a bunch of unruly singers run over their lines and attempt to locate the correct key would be a treat. “I might even have the time to spare. It’s strange, but I find myself working more efficiently, leaving me with more time to spare rather than less, since you’ve come.”

Which wasn’t even a lie; Bucky knew a lot of the nobility, pampered, puffed up, posh pricks who wouldn’t know Work if she came up and introduced herself. But Tony-- he didn’t leave everything to estate managers and butlers and housekeepers. He didn’t commission an artist to do a painting and then claim the work as his own. (Bucky still thought Steve should have been much angrier about that than he had been.)

Tony _worked_. Mostly in his machine shop, but sometimes in his library as well. One time, at a word from Jarvis, Bucky had gone out to the shop at nearly dawn to find Tony bent over a stubborn gearshaft by lamplight, muttering to himself, his hair crazy and his dinner entirely untouched. 

“If you are efficient _now_ , I shudder to think what it was like before I insisted you join us for dinner,” Bucky said.

Tony waved one hand gracefully. “I had trouble selecting a project and sticking with it,” he said. “Too many ideas, all clamoring for attention at once, and no idea how to quiet the noise. You...” He glanced around and then stopped, turning to face Bucky directly. “You quiet the noise, Bucky. You help me find my way. It’s a rare gift, and one I’m most grateful for.”

Bucky found himself chewing his lip and made himself stop. Wearing face paint was hard enough, but it stung when it went into a chapped lip. He considered and discarded a dozen responses. “I’m glad to be of use,” he said, finally, which didn’t even begin to cover it. He was of use to a great many people, and had been to many others, but-- not in that way. Tony was looking at him like he was true north, and it was… humbling, somehow.

And made him want to feel worthy of such regard.

Tony waved his hand again and resumed walking. “Unbearably sentimental, I know. You must forgive me; I’ll endeavor to restrain myself to more appropriate topics for a public outing.” He was smiling a little as he said it. “Do you know I found your costumer in full battle with my laundress, the other day? It was a spectacle to behold.”

“Miss Van Dyne? She can be a right little pest when she’s got a bee in her bonnet,” Bucky said. “We sometimes call her Wasp, as she’s known to carry a dagger under her dress.”

“And fabric shears on her chatelaine,” Tony agreed. “I did not linger to be drawn into the discussion.”

“No, I imagine not,” Bucky said. He _could_ easily imagine it, that said. Jan had many ideas, and all things fabric were supposed to be left to her domain. A careless laundress could ruin a costume by ill-washing. “Like all sensible people, you need not endanger your own skin.”

Their path had looped around until they were once again nearing the edge of the park, Tony’s townhouse just a few blocks away. Tony watched it as they approached, pensive. “Thank you for walking with me. I needed an hour of fresh air to settle my thoughts.”

“I do enjoy stretching my legs,” Bucky said, giving Tony a sly look. There were many, _many_ ways Bucky had been stretching his legs. Tony’d discovered at least a dozen or more, in the last few weeks. It was quite likely that Tony would be coming to Bucky’s room again that night. After whatever social event of the season he was required to attend. Paying court to whatever society misses were eligible.

Bucky decided he didn’t want to ask too many questions about those. A season, he told himself firmly. That was all he ever needed.

Tony chuckled. “Yes, I may have noticed that.” He paused as they went through the door, catching Bucky’s hand the way he couldn’t, in the park. “I know you’ve many things to do -- rehearsals and practice. I won’t keep you, only... give me a kiss before you go?”

“Not a gift,” Bucky said, “you will owe me. Later.” 

The kiss was a simple thing, a press of lip against lip, a sigh of breath against Tony’s cheek, the way his arms couldn’t help but go around the man’s waist. And yet, at the same time, it was utterly sublime. Magnificent. The way Tony’s tongue slid against his, the way he felt seen and known by Tony, the way no one else ever saw him. The way no one else had ever known him. When Tony kissed him, dressed or otherwise, Bucky was never more naked.

It was _beautiful._

When Tony pulled away to breathe, he rested his forehead against Bucky’s for a moment, eyes still closed. “The hours will be too long,” he murmured. “I look forward to paying my debt.” He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and smiled up into Bucky’s eyes before pulling away, holding onto Bucky’s hand until the last possible second.

He paused just before disappearing around the corner. “Oh, Bucky? Eight o’clock, for dinner?”

Bucky nodded. “Of course, your lordship.” Just to watch Tony make that face. As if _Lord_ was the last thing he wanted to be.

He was still watching the space where Tony had been, listening to the retreating footsteps, when, “You’re letting him call you _Bucky_?” Natasha came up behind him, her arms full of costumes. “You’ve never done that with a patron before.”

“James is just as much a fiction as any I play on the stage,” Bucky said, which was true. James B. Barnes was not-- _who he was_. That was a name on the playbill, not the flesh and blood man. He knew, perhaps, that it hadn’t been wise to give Tony all of himself, to even risk that much. But he couldn’t help it, and he didn’t regret it.

“You think I don’t know that?” She tucked up the cloth under one arm and linked the other with Bucky’s. “Which makes it doubly... interesting that it’s not the name you’ve given Lord Stark. One might almost think you’re giving him the truth when you let him take you to bed.”

“I don’t know that let--” Bucky started. He didn’t let Tony take him to bed. He practically _raced_ him there. “It’s not like that.”

One of Nat’s eyebrows quirked up. “No? How is it, then?”

Bucky couldn’t help the way he looked back where Tony had been, not but a moment before. Probably giving everything away to Nat, without even knowing what it was. “He’s different,” Bucky said, at last. “And I’m different, when I’m with him.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, Bucky. You know... you know he can’t really keep you, don’t you? Don’t let him have your heart.”

“I’m not so foolish,” Bucky said, although he wasn’t sure that was true. “End of the summer, we go south, just like always. It’ll be a nice memory, don’t you think? He’s been exceptionally generous.”

“He has,” she allowed. “For a peer, he’s not such a bad sort. But be careful. Guard yourself.” She was watching him with liquid eyes that knew him all too well.

“I’m careful,” Bucky protested. He wasn’t sure what he was protesting. In the end, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t have Tony; not forever, or even for a few years. One season, that was all. It would have to be enough, wouldn’t it?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills:  
> \- 27dragons' Starkbucks Bingo, square O5 - Accidental Feelings  
> \- tisfan's Bucky Barnes Bingo, square Y5 - Accidental Feelings
> 
> (...Yes, really, lol)

“For a day’s outing,” Bucky said, waving the second team on, “we can fit all the stage and scenery in one wagon, and the crew in the other. We will hardly slow you down at all. In the winter, of course, or moving the whole company, we’re near to a dozen wagons, and we creep across the road like ants. But this-- this is light travel.”

The spring weather had been particularly fine for the past few days, and Tony had made good on his promise to take the opera troupe out into the country a bit, for a picnic. One well-laden wagon had already gone ahead, filled with food and a selection of kitchen and serving staff to set it all up. Of course, that left Tony to try to organize their little caravan.

“It sounds very crowded,” Tony said dubiously. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather ride in my carriages? I have several, and I can promise they’re all well-sprung. Much more comfortable than a wagon on uneven roads.”

“And we’ll make a fine parade headed out of town,” Bucky predicted. “If you wish to have a grand performance, I guarantee you that you’ll get urchins and farmers of every sort coming to have a look-see.”

“I don’t know why urchins and farmers shouldn’t be allowed to enjoy the opera, if they like,” Tony said mildly. “But it’s probably true that I didn’t order enough food for the entire village. Will you be riding with the troupe?” He tried to make the question casual, as if he didn’t mind either way.

_Pathetic,_ he chided himself. _Keep it up; he’ll be glad to be leaving at summer’s end._

“If you’re not tired of my company yet,” Bucky said, “I’ll be happy to sit in a well sprung carriage.” 

“I’m not sure I’ll ever tire of your company,” Tony said, entirely too honestly. He waved toward his chosen vehicle and held out a hand to help Bucky up. 

Bucky’s fingers lingered along Tony’s wrist as he clambered into the carriage, and then he sprawled over one of the seats like some decadent French painting. “I never do quite get used to how much room you have,” Bucky said, petting the velvet seat covers. 

“When I’m making the trip from town out to the estate, I’m stuck in here for days,” Tony said. “It’s nice to have enough space to take a bit of a nap.” He settled opposite Bucky, watching with an expression that was probably far too fond.

“Is it nice, your estate?” Bucky looked out the window, even though there was nothing to see except the city that they all knew. It would be at least an hour before they were past the edges of town, and a body could see anything beyond buildings and other carriages.

Not that Tony was all that big on bucolic scenery, but it did seem to inspire some people.

“We stayed, a few years ago, at the Duke’s manor,” Bucky continued. “Duke Pierce. He had ruins installed on his estate. Like, built up a huge, mock amphitheater, like in Rome, and then knocked it down, let it grow over. We did a few performances there. Atigone, Oedipus, you know, those sorts of things. It felt… very much like stepping back in time.”

“I can’t decide if that’s impressive or a horrible waste,” Tony admitted. “His Grace and I move in... very different circles, usually. But I’m sure it made the perfect backdrop for your performance. I don’t have anything like that on my own estate, I’m afraid. I’m more enamoured of the future than the past. ”

“I’ve seen your engines, your drawings,” Bucky said, leaning even further back into the cushion, looking very much like he was issuing an invitation. “Maybe I’ll take up my hand at writing a play, or an opera. They don’t all have to be hundreds of years old to be of value, do you think? Something new, about machines, and the way everything keeps changing?”

“Even the oldest of the classics had to be new at some point,” Tony said reasonably. “I should like to see that. Or hear it. An aria in praise of the coming dawn.”

“It’s a notion,” Bucky said. “But in the meanwhile, tell me about this future you imagine, and what our part in it will be. I like listening to you. You could be just as fair on the stage as any of us, maybe I’ll convince you to sing in front of other people. Someday.”

Tony scoffed. “And have the audience applaud from a sense of duty? I get enough of that in drawing rooms. My place is in the audience, listening.”

“Put you in a costume, and a wig, and no one would ever know--” Bucky started. He leaned forward to brush his thumb over Tony’s chin. “Might have to shave, though.”

Tony caught Bucky’s hand and pressed a kiss to the palm. “I thought you liked my beard,” he teased, using it to scratch at the inside of Bucky’s wrist.

“I love your beard,” Bucky said. “But you have to admit, it makes you very recognizable.”

“I should hope so,” Tony said. “I spent weeks perfecting the shape.” He shook his head. “Perhaps I’ll play for you, sometime.”

“You should,” Bucky said. “Seems only fair.”

The trip was not so long that Tony was restless, although that might have been more due to the company than to the carriage or the scenery. As soon as they arrived at the meadow before the river, however, Bucky turned into an entirely different person.

No longer the idle courtesan, but the eager taskmaster. He got the sets dragged out, the makeshift stage built up, the costumers organized. He was efficient and quick, motivating his people more with praise than with threats, and everyone seemed happy to be about their work. 

Tony took his place on a chair that had been placed for him and sat back to watch, bemused and amused.

Bucky, it was clear, was not meant for the languorous life of a companion -- he was happy like this, with work to do and his troupe to direct. Happier, perhaps, than Tony had yet seen him.

The management of the troupe, Tony thought idly, was not unlike the management of a bustling household. Bucky might make a fine spouse, someday.

Tony almost gasped aloud. Where had _that_ thought come from?

Bucky wasn’t half wrong about the crowds, either. The troupe wasn’t but partway through setting up their makeshift stage when farmers and some of the nearby townfolk wandered out, with picnic lunches tucked under their arm. One brave young man came up and formally requested permission for them to be able to watch, but it was clear the way some of the families were already setting up their blankets and unpacking their hampers, they were going to watch regardless. Tony didn’t own the land, he couldn’t chase them off, even if he were so inclined.

“By all means,” Tony allowed graciously. “Consider having someone pass a hat for the players afterward. It’ll help them feel appreciated.” Not that Tony was going to fail in his duties as a host, but performing troupes were always lacking in ready cash, and a little extra could make a lot of difference if they ran into difficulties once they’d moved on.

Bucky brushed past Tony at one point with a quick, "I did warn you," before organizing a side showing of Punch and Judy to keep the little ones entertained. It was almost like watching a dance, Bucky flitting from one group to the next, checking costumes and making sure the stage was safe to getting someone to hold a parasol for Tony and helping a very pregnant farmer's wife to a comfortable seat. And all with a cheerful manner and a smile for everyone.

But especially Tony.

Tony was utterly helpless in the face of that smile. He couldn’t help smiling back, and if Bucky had asked him for anything at all, Tony thought he’d move heaven and earth to make sure Bucky got whatever it was. Bucky was just so sweet and charming and observant and caring and beautiful and--

Oh, oh hell. Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. “Get a grip on yourself, Stark,” he muttered. “He’s gone with the summer’s sun.”

Finally, and it was not even that long, the demi-production, as Bucky called it, was ready to begin.

They did short scenes, a single from one opera, then a skit from a play. Bucky and Miss Romanoff treated them to a hilarious rendition of _Taming of the Shrew_ complete with impressive acrobatics. Another song, from an Italian opera, a bit of Midsummer Night's Dream, and the whole company sang a series of rounds where each seemed to compete with the other for the audience's attention.

Tony’s eyes followed Bucky the whole time he was on stage, but whenever he glanced over the gathered crowd, they seemed to be enjoying everything as well, laughing at the antics and swaying gently with the softer melodies.

Tony felt a sense of satisfaction at that. He hadn’t merely stolen the troupe from under Killian’s nose to tweak his rival -- though that had been a part of it. But they were, truly, an excellent bunch of performers who’d been utterly wasted in Killian’s patronage. Tony made a note to arrange some shows for them over the summer, something that would spread their reputation amongst the peers who prided themselves on their dedication to the arts.

After perhaps not quite two hours, Bucky came over to flop on the grass next to Tony. He was sweaty and his hair a mess, face still made up with ruby circles on his cheeks. "So, do you wish us gone, or did we please your lordship?'

“My lordship is immensely pleased, as I’m certain you already know,” Tony said, poking Bucky gently with his toes. “I’m not sure I could ever wish you gone.”

"Give us time," Bucky said. "we're still on our best behavior. But soon enough, you'll be involved in some serious lordly manner of work and be called upon to judge if you think the sleeves on a dress are crooked or if Miss Pym is merely standing wrong to be obtuse."

Tony laughed. “I’m sure my serious and lordly work could use a little breaking up, now and then.” He offered Bucky a plate of nibbles and confections that he’d been picking at. “Have something to eat?”

"You may feed me," Bucky said, leaning all the way back to look up at Tony. "I have grease all over my hands."

“Well, it wouldn’t do to get that all over your luncheon,” Tony agreed. He selected a little puff of pastry filled with a creamy cheese, and held it to Bucky’s lips.

No one paid them any particular mind. The rest of the troupe had draped themselves around the meadow, some on blankets, a few still sitting on the stage. A few of the singers had gone off on strolls with the farmers' sons or daughters, just out of earshot. A few boys had started fishing the riverbank, although the amount of noise they were making would make catching anything unlikely.

"This is nice," Bucky said, licking his lip to catch a bit of cheese. "Just having fun for the sake of having fun."

Tony could no more stop from watching Bucky’s tongue than he could stop _thinking_. “It is rather decadent, isn’t it?” Tony offered Bucky another tidbit. “Here. All that singing and waving around must have given you an appetite.”

"It does wear one weary sometimes," Bucky said. "For years, I couldn't eat before a show. Some will say it's bad luck, but usually it's just stage nerves."

“Well, I suppose casting up your accounts mid-speech would be considered bad luck,” Tony mused, chuckling. 

"Especially for your opposite," Bucky said, holding out his arms as if he'd just been on the receiving end, the look on his face so exactly disgusted that Tony wasn't sure he hadn't been doused in something unpleasant. Then Bucky laughed again. 

_They lie with their whole bodies._

For a moment, Tony wondered -- not for the first time -- how much Bucky was acting, with him. Less than it would have been for Killian, Tony was certain. Bucky had _chosen_ Tony, free of obligation.

But it wasn’t love, was it? It was only a summer’s dalliance, a few pleasant nights and some jewels and fripperies, and by the time winter had come around, Bucky would doubtless be in someone else’s arms. Acting.

It shouldn’t bother him. He’d had other companions, from time to time, though none he’d liked so well as Bucky. He knew his role in this little pageant. But it ached, it _burned_ , to think of Bucky climbing into that painted wagon at the end of the season and waving a last farewell as they drove out of the gate.

God help him; Tony wanted more. And he wasn’t going to get it.

"You seem very deep in thought all of the sudden, my lord," Bucky said. "I can bring the puppet box here and we'll show you how Punch talks the hangman into hanging himself instead. Clever fellow that he is."

“No, you’ve done plenty of entertaining me today,” Tony said, shaking off the sudden fit of melancholy. He had Bucky _now_ , he reminded himself fiercely, and needed to make the most of it. He could spend the cold months holed up at his estate, sulking into a bottle of wine. “Believe it or not, I arranged this outing so you and your friends could relax a little.”

"If Clint--" Bucky pointed to a young man asleep on the catwalk overlooking the small stage, "was any more relaxed, he'd be deceased."

“I think you could learn a lot from Clint,” Tony said, laughing. “ _He_ knows how to take advantage of a pretty day.”

Some of the group were practicing instruments, a lovely, sprightly tune. "Would you care for a country dance," Bucky said, getting lightly to his feet and offering Tony his hand. 

Tony glanced around -- some of the younger farmers were already getting up to dance, and a few of the actors, as well. “Certainly,” Tony said, taking Bucky’s hand and following along to the clear space where the dancers were lined up. “End of the line, please,” he added. “I don’t know this one; I need a couple of rounds to watch.”

Bucky was everything that an agreeable partner could be, attentive and skilled, smiling and conversing with ease, carrying Tony through the steps and keeping him in step without looking as if he were hinting. Or even worried. Their hands met for the pass, and they marched down the row. Bucky keeping his fingers pressed at the small in Tony's back, a hidden caress.

Tony found himself wishing he could take Bucky with him to the society balls, to show his so-called peers the meaning of true grace. Impossible, of course, and yet...

Those strong fingers pressed again and when Tony looked up, Bucky’s eyelid fluttered in something not _quite_ obviously a wink. Tony wished he could easily excuse himself from the impromptu party, pull Bucky out into the copse of trees on the far side of the field, or even into his carriage and kiss that smirking mouth until Bucky was groaning with eagerness.

It seemed as if Bucky was as aware as Tony, of their nearness, of mutual desire. "It shall be a slower ride home," he said, "as the horses will not be as fresh. Plenty of time." He didn't add plenty of time for what, but there was something about his smile that said Bucky was not making idle promises.

“Yes,” Tony said slowly. “We should have ample opportunity to study the... scenery.”

"You can make a study of the wayside, if you like, my lord," Bucky teased. "I shall make a more earthy inquiry."

“I did not say it was the scenery outside the window in which I was most interested,” Tony murmured.

"Pffft," Bucky scoffed. "I'm not half so lovely as you. Must be your noble features." He leaned back a little as if to indicate which feature, in particular, he meant. 

“Perhaps, and I find that I am not particularly moved when I spy myself in the glass, and yet the sight of you never fails to gladden my heart.”

Bucky's eyes went wide and somehow defenseless, as if Tony had touched him, somehow. "Tis not through envy of thy happy lot/But being too happy in thine happiness–"

“That thou, light-winged dryad of the trees / in some melodious plot / of beechen green and shadows numberless / singst of summer in full-throated ease,” Tony finished.

"Oh, now you've done it," Bucky said. "Quoting my favorite poem back to me? You'll be lucky if I ever leave you, now." He took Tony's hand, pressing it against his heart, to feel the rapid beat underneath. "Truly, I am overcome."

Well, it seemed Tony must take at least one moment to silently thank the tutor who’d insisted on drumming poetry into Tony’s skull. “Perhaps you’ll favor me with a reading,” he murmured, lifting Bucky’s hand and pressing his lips to the knuckles.

"If you will but tarry a few moments as I get my paltry gang organized, I'll be delighted to recite for you." Bucky clapped his hands twice, getting the attention of the company. "Come, vagabonds, let's get to work."

Tony shook his head, amused, and turned to wave at his own staff to begin packing up. 

Tony watched Bucky for a moment, just as efficient in the breakdown as he’d been in the setting up, and still pausing to be kind -- exchanging a few words with the farmer families who stopped to talk, stealing a bit of sweet to slip to a child, tucking a wildflower behind a shy youth’s ear. And every time he looked over at Tony, it seemed some sort of spark of heat passed through the air between them, a heat that had nothing at all to do with the warm sun.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut-averse readers, this continues directly on from the previous chapter. Click here to skip straight to the post-coital romance and pining. :)

There was something exhilarating about a performance, no matter how small the audience, and true to Bucky’s prediction, it had been a very successful outing.

They’d gotten in some vocal work, practice with scene change-overs, the puppeteers had gotten to ply their craft, and older costumes had been dragged out, used, and marked for repair or repurposing.

Plus, toward the end of the break-down, one of the local townsmen approached and handed Bucky a leather pouch filled with shillings.

He’d have to count that out later, but it looked a decent haul, really.

He was beaming with good humor when he headed back to Tony’s carriage. Tony was already aboard, sitting on one velvet bench, leaving plenty of space for Bucky to join him.

Performance was exhilarating, but also, exhausting. He practically crawled onto the bench, rather than sitting up like a proper gentleman, he curled up on the seat, laying his head against Tony’s thigh.

Tony chuckled, and his fingers threaded their way into Bucky’s hair, making it fall loose around his face. “If you’re able to sleep on these roads, no matter how well sprung my carriage, then I’m impressed.”

“I would say, prepare to be impressed,” Bucky said, snuggling against Tony’s leg, “but I don’t know that I can hold any more of your esteem without putting in some effort to earn it.”

“You think you didn’t earn any of my esteem today?” Tony wondered. His nails scratched lightly along the base of Bucky’s scalp. “Foolishness. I am constantly amazed by you.”

“My ability to fall asleep--” Bucky said, tipping his head in response to that tender touch. “Well, let’s just say there’s only one easier way to fall.” 

Falling in love, Bucky thought, letting his eyelids flutter shut. That was the easiest thing to do, and perhaps he should take better care, because he was pretty sure he was already on the way down. Not that it mattered. How Bucky felt didn’t change anything. He was an opera singer and an actor, born of no one, owning nothing but the clothes in his trunk. He was no more fit to be more to Tony than an idle distraction than a crow was to be a farmer.

Tony hummed. “If you sleep now, you’ll have a headache when we get home, and then you’ll be out of sorts all evening.”

“If you keep talking,” Bucky said, laughing, “I won’t be able to sleep at all.”

“Maybe that’s what I want,” Tony teased, tugging gently at a lock of Bucky’s hair.

Bucky huffed an exaggerated sigh, rolling onto his back to peer up at his lordship. Tony didn’t look particularly lordly from this angle. Just a man, gazing down at his lover. “If you keep me up now, I shall be like to fall asleep on you when you most wish me to entertain you. Therefore, the compromise-- I must entertain you now, that I might sleep at night. I am not made of such stern stuff as you; I require sleep, regularly and restful.” 

Tony, on the other hand, was prone to sleeping about three hours and then carrying on with his day with the application of strong tea and a brilliant idea.

“Ah, well, let me not deprive you of your beauty sleep,” Tony said grandly. “Sleep, then, if you can, and I’ll guard your rest.”

“Oh, no,” Bucky said, catching Tony’s hand and kissing his fingertips. “You’ll just have to deal with me ugly now. I’m awake. And wondering about the prospects of entertainment. How low do the carriage shades go?”

Tony glanced at the carriage window. “As low as you like. Are you considering some risque entertainment, Mr. Barnes?” He pretended, very badly, to be scandalized.

“I am considering a great many things, as a matter of fact. Should you care for a list, or is it dealer’s choice?” It wasn’t like he considered entertaining Tony to be a chore. In fact, he rather enjoyed it. The usual noble fare was boring, considered ennui to be the height of culture -- and thus, it extended to even the bedchamber, where Bucky had spent many nights striving to bring his patron to pitch, while the man under him pretended to be bored.

Tony wasn’t like that, not at all. He prided himself on being both inventive and _attentive_. He was vocal in his praise and sincere in his interest.

It was enough to give Bucky notions, honestly. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” Tony mused. “Does dealer’s choice afford me the opportunity to put my mouth on you?”

Bucky hitched in a breath. He was never, he thought, going to get used to Tony’s avid interest in doing more than just laying there during intercourse. That he was not just willing to reciprocate, but _wanted to_. “If you like,” Bucky said, reaching up to run his thumb across Tony’s lower lip, remembering what it looked like when his mouth was puffy and _used_ , knowing that he might see it again, and that very soon. “But, you first. I’m still riding high off performance. If you-- well, I won’t last long enough to be worth the effort.”

“You’re always worth the effort,” Tony said, so sincere it made Bucky’s chest ache. “But by all means, show me what you’re thinking of.” He reached over to pull the nearer windowshade down until it was well below the bottom of the window.

Bucky gave the other a similar treatment; the carriage interior was not perfectly dark, but it was dim. Romantic. He wanted to push Tony down against that plush cushion and rub against him, to feel the heat of his body, the length of his muscle, but they would be seen upon exiting the carriage, and getting back into fit-to-be-seen state would be easier if Bucky didn’t muss them up too badly.

He settled for scooting on the seat closer to Tony to tease him into a kiss, a soft nuzzle at Tony’s mouth, the brief slide of his tongue against Tony’s. “Loosen up your trousers for me, and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”

“I’ve known peers that I’m not certain they knew _how_ to open their own trousers,” Tony mused, but he was tugging at the buttons and laces, loosening their hold on him. “They’d have insisted you do all the work.”

“Well, you’re quite a bit brighter than your average viscount,” Bucky said. “Some days, I trust you even to walk and smoke a cigar at the same time.”

“High praise,” Tony said, laughing, though that changed into a bit of a gasp as the front of his trousers finally fell away to free his tool, already stiffening, growing toward Bucky like a flower.

Bucky slid down onto the floor, his knees bumping the wagon’s floor. It was not as plush as the seats, of course, but it did have a bit of carpeting there, so that was nice enough. He situated himself until he was kneeling between Tony’s thighs. “There, now isn’t this nice?” He ran one finger up the length, marveling at the soft skin, the way Tony twitched in his seat, the way his breath caught, and then released.

One thing Bucky loved most was how nice Tony always _smelled_. Like laundry soap and cologne and leather and lavender. Bucky leaned in, rubbed at Tony with his cheek, feeling the hot length of him.

Tony let out a soft moan, and then bit his lip. His hand, resting on the cushioned seat next to him, curled into a fist. “We’ll have to be quiet,” he murmured, “lest the driver hear.”

“I will have no difficulty,” Bucky said, giving Tony a sly look, knowing exactly the portrait he was making. “It’s rude to talk with one’s mouth full.”

And then he proceeded to demonstrate, taking Tony in with a quick bob of his head. 

A soft whine leaked out of Tony’s throat and he tipped his head back, eyes falling shut, even as his hand curled over the top of Bucky’s head, combing restlessly at Bucky’s hair. A breath later, he looked at Bucky again, eyes wide and dark with desire and need. “Christ yes,” he whispered. “You’re so-- oh, so wicked.”

“Not solely the purview of actors and opera singers,” Bucky said, because Tony could be rather wicked himself, “but I admit, we do excel.”

He used his grip to part Tony’s thighs wider, and took him down to the base, swallowing around it. He could hold his breath for quite some time, and had excellent control of his diaphragm. He used that skill, tipping his head back and forth to twist heat and wetness down on Tony’s cock, until the man was moaning, hands opening and closing helplessly.

Tony shifted a little, wriggled as if fighting the urge to simply shove himself deeper into Bucky’s throat. A thready whimper escaped, and then a soft but fervent curse. “Bucky, darling, I--”

Bucky hummed, wriggling his tongue against the underside of Tony’s cock, encouraging him to lift his thighs. They hit a particularly deep hole in the road and Bucky spluttered as he lost his control for a moment, but the _sound_ Tony made-- dear God, it was beautiful.

“God, the things you do to me,” Tony gasped. “The things you let me do to you...” He pushed his hands through Bucky’s hair again, almost rough, desperate, and then reached down with one finger to trace Bucky’s lips where they were stretched around him. “ _God_ ,” he groaned. “Bucky, I--” His eyes fluttered shut and his body shuddered as he reached his peak.

Bucky’s eyes teared up with the effort to keep them open, wanting to watch Tony’s face glowing with bliss. He swallowed, swallowed again, and the last of it ran down his chin, which he wiped, a little abashed, with his fingertip. 

Gentle, slow, he rocked back onto his heels and licked the last traces of Tony from his finger, from his lip. He thought, if he could ever be granted a wish, it would be to be right here, in these few precious moments, satisfied with himself and anticipating being further satisfied.

_Easiest thing to do in the world is fall at your feet._

It was a dozen breaths or so before Tony’s breathing slowed and his eyes opened, and he looked at Bucky with a sweet smile. He cupped Bucky’s face in his hand and traced Bucky’s lips with his thumb. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “Will you allow me to return the favor, now?”

“Oh, well, if you insist,” Bucky teased. “Truly, it’s my pleasure to-- to see you so sated.”

He wondered if he dared open the window, just a little, to look out and know they were at more risk of being seen. It would be an added thrill; since no one would expect the lord to be serving his lover. Perhaps-- just thinking about it sent chills down Bucky’s spine. He wondered if Tony even knew. How powerful he made Bucky feel, like Bucky was something rare and special.

He didn’t even need to prove it.

Bucky opened the flap of his breeches, untucked his shirt. Lounged almost bonelessly against the seat. _Almost_.

Tony slid to the floor of the carriage, nudging his way between Bucky’s knees. “And it will be my pleasure to see you thus,” Tony said brightly. His eyes on Bucky’s, fluttering those thick eyelashes, he lick a slow stripe up Bucky’s cock, like some sort of obscene ice. “You taste so good,” he sighed, and went to work, positively painting Bucky’s sensitive skin, alternating between slow and fast, broad and narrow, licking and sucking, in no pattern that Bucky could discern, so he could never anticipate the next touch.

God, Tony was something else. Bucky was shivering, head rolled back against the carriage seat, staring up at the ceiling, utterly enraptured with the lascivious things that Tony was doing to him, trying to keep from crying out.

_Must be quiet. The driver will hear._

Bucky’s voice could be heard across a crowded and noisy theater. If he gave sound to what he was feeling now, he thought perhaps they’d hear it all the way in Suffolk.

At last, Tony took pity on him and sucked Bucky in wholly. That didn’t stop that tortuous tongue, but it slowed it a little, and it was harder for Tony to _stare_ at him while bobbing his head up and down.

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Bucky kept up a low-voiced litany, mostly Tony’s name, which seemed like a blessing in and of itself. Assorted swear words, and a few tokens of praise. But mostly, Tony’s name. Because he could say it. And it was the most beautiful word he’d ever spoken.

His orgasm, when it came, was hot and cold, shivers and sweats, a blissful white ache in his bones, and fire in his veins. It took every part of him and shattered him into a million pieces. 

When he looked again, Tony was still on the floor, relaxing now against Bucky’s leg, watching him with something like fond amusement as he petted Bucky’s skin. “Ah, there you are,” he said.

“Never left,” Bucky promised. And he--

\--Caught his breath with a sudden jerk. He never wanted to. He couldn’t imagine what it was going to be like, leaving at the end of the season. His eyes burned and his throat ached with imagined grief. “Just resting my eyes. Looking at you is like looking into the sun.”

Tony scoffed lightly as he climbed back up onto the seat next to Bucky and began setting his clothing to rights. “Not that I don’t appreciate the flattery, but you may have spent too long under the sun yourself, if you’re seeing such nonsense.”

“You are my sun,” Bucky said, snuggling up and hindering Tony’s efforts to dress him. “All the warmth and light in my entire life.” He didn’t really mean to sound so utterly lovesick, but it just sort of slipped out. He let his eyes close, and hoped that Tony didn’t notice. Or mind.

* * *

Bucky hadn’t meant that to come out so sentimental, Tony was certain. It was only because he’d spent the last few hours spouting poetry and doing dramatic readings, and it was just the sort of mindset that he was in. Perfectly understandable.

Still, Tony couldn’t resist just putting his arm around Bucky and enjoying the way Bucky felt, tucked up against Tony’s side. Pretending, for only a moment or two, that they were truly going _home_ , to a place they both belonged, a place that they could be together.

Christ, but Tony was going to miss Bucky, when the troupe left. And the sex was the least part of it. He closed his eyes and felt the soft rise and fall of Bucky’s breath, traced a slow pattern of whorls over Bucky’s back, and focused on not blurting out something embarrassing like _stay with me forever_.

There was a certain tension, an awareness, perhaps, in Bucky’s body. He wasn’t, Tony thought, actually sleeping. Resting his eyes, he’d said. Enjoying the closeness for the sake of it. It was these moments, really, that spoke of actual _intimacy_ , no matter what things Bucky did with his mouth or his cock. The way Tony knew he wasn’t actually asleep. The way Bucky tended to find him, tea already prepared, just when Tony was needing a break.

It was like having a wife and lover, a very good butler, and a poet all at the same time.

Bucky barely stirred. “I can hear you thinking,” he said, without even opening his eyes.

Just like that. “Sorry, are my mental processes keeping you awake?” Tony teased.

Bucky patted Tony’s calf absently. “No need to fret,” he said. “I can sleep through an earthquake. Just want to make sure you’re not _worrying_.”

“What on earth could I possibly have to worry about?” Tony wondered. _Aside from how much it will hurt when you leave_. “I’ve good health, sufficient funds, and a beautiful man on my arm.”

“My Ma used to worry she’d left a fire going in the hearth, or a hot iron on a pile of laundry,” Bucky commented. “I dare say Jarvis wouldn’t let that happen, though. Maybe you’re concerned that you will have the same waistcoat as Viscount Vanko at the next ball you attend and you’ll be a social outcast. I don’t know. Tell me your worries.”

_I worry I’ll never find anyone like you again_. That wasn’t a worry, though, so much as a blatant certainty. Tony hummed, thinking. “I worry that Killian will one day accept that I’m a better card player, and stop attempting to best me -- I don’t know what I’d do for amusement, if that happened. Also, I worry that Javis will eventually make good on his threat to stop buying coffee for me. He thinks it’s unhealthy.”

“He doesn’t like you very much,” Bucky admitted. “Lord Killian, I mean. Jarvis adores you, and he zealously guards your life as if it were his own. Did I tell you the whole grapes thing was staged? He had a boy out looking for your carriage and rushed me over to make a scene to present to you. Which is why--” Bucky trailed off. “Well, perhaps I shouldn’t admit so much.”

“Well you can’t go that far and then _stop_ ,” Tony reasoned. “Otherwise, I’ll be wondering about it all night. You want me to be able to sleep, don’t you?”

“I looked at you, that first moment, prepared to admire you, for no other reason than to annoy Lord Killian in a way he could not protest,” Bucky said. “But-- then I was near to speechless. You were so much more than I could have imagined, even taking Killian’s every word as sour grapes.”

Exaggeration, of course, though Tony could believe well enough that he compared favorably to Killian, who was handsome enough in a pinched sort of way, but utterly despicable in all other lights. “I think you’re indulging in whatever the opposite of sour grapes is,” Tony said, trying to keep his tone light. “We barely spoke, at that first meeting.”

“Only because I couldn’t find my voice,” Bucky said. 

“Well, then, how fortuitous that I encountered you in the hall later.” The best thing to have happened to Tony in recent memory.

“Extremely.” Bucky turned his head and pressed a kiss to Tony’s knee. “I don’t know what would have happened, if you hadn’t. As it is, I can’t imagine-- well, hopefully I shall never have to meet with Killian in a public place.”

“I wish you luck in that endeavor. The man’s like a bad penny.” Tony stroked Bucky’s hair, marveling as he always did how soft it was under his fingers. “I shall do my best to protect you.”

“I know,” Bucky said. He settled down onto Tony’s leg again. “I trust you.”

Tony had to fight for his next breath, stolen as it was. He would not, _could not_ believe Bucky had said that merely to manipulate Tony, or to stroke his ego. Bucky was a marvelous actor, but that simple, nonchalant statement could only have come from a sense of truth. Bucky hadn’t even looked up to see how Tony would react.

“That’s. That’s very sweet.”

Bucky didn’t answer, and Tony thought that he’d actually fallen asleep that time. His breathing was calm and peaceful, his hand unconsciously tightening on Tony’s leg.

Tony settled back in his seat and resumed petting Bucky’s hair, watching the rise and fall of Bucky’s breathing. It was surprisingly soothing. Or perhaps not so surprising, after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Breakfast wasn’t something that Tony particularly enjoyed. A good cup of coffee to start off the day was enough for him, but the daily ritual of at least sitting down so a footman could bring him his coffee and his secretary could inform him of his schedule, and of course, that Jarvis could bring him the mail, seemed necessary.

Sometimes he even ate the toast and soft boiled egg that the kitchen staff provided.

“I see you have this morning’s _Times_ ,” his secretary said, looking to one side. “Happen to read it, yet?”

“Only the headlines,” Tony said, shuffling the paper out from under the stack of mail. “Is there something in there of interest?”

“If you’ll look toward the bottom of page twelve,” Miss Potts said, gesturing with her piece of toast, “you got a mention in the gossip column.”

Tony wouldn’t have read the gossip column even if he’d finished with the paper, to tell the truth. Dreadfully boring stuff. Who was wearing last year’s fashions, who cut whom at so-and-so’s ball.

It took him no time at all to find the little snippet that Miss Potts was referring to, however.

_Lord S--, we all know who he is, has been mysteriously absent of late. This writer has not seen a single sign of him at any of the weekly balls, nor even the rumor of his appearance at his club. An inquiry was met with the information that a physicker had been to the Lord’s London Manor home, but alas, we got no news from that esteemed person. So, we’re all wondering, has some tragedy befallen his Lordship? Inquiring readers want to know._

Well, that was both better and worse than Tony had feared. Better, in that they weren’t outright implying he’d done something horrid, like run off to the Continent unannounced -- or worse, the Americas -- but worse in that this definitely heralded the beginning of a season’s worth of speculation, if he didn’t show himself.

“Blast,” he grumbled, folding the paper again and slapping it on the table. “Why won’t it occur to them that the reason I’ve not been seen is that I merely haven’t wanted to endure the tedium of it?”

“When you’re at the clubs, no one cares that you’re missing out on the balls, aside from some deluded society miss who thinks perhaps if you danced with her, she might be the next Lady Stark,” Miss Potts said. “But you’ve been buried in the manor, and people start to wonder why.”

“Much as it’s good to see the papers speculating on something other than your latest drunken revel, my lord,” Jarvis added, topping off Tony’s coffee cup with his usual disapproving not-frown. Jarvis would never frown, it wasn’t appropriate. But he could give off a neutral face of disapproval like he’d trademarked it.

“I know, I know,” Tony grumbled. “I need to show myself. Prove I’m alive before the vultures start carving up my carcass.” And none of the places he could go to show himself were places he could bring Bucky, damn it all.

He picked up the mail and shuffled out the social invitations, easily distinguished from more businesslike correspondence by the floridness of the address, and shuffled through them, looking for one that had been issued by someone he halfway liked. “All right, here,” he said. “Lady Hanson is having a house party; that’s not as dreadful as a ball, at least. I’ll go to that.”

“Very good,” Miss Potts said. “I’ll pen your acceptance for you this afternoon, and I can make an appointment with the tailor, if you’d like to update your wardrobe?”

“I suppose that’s a hint that I _ought_ to update,” Tony sighed. “Very well. Maybe he can measure Bucky for a suit while he’s here, save him the extra trip.”

“Of course,” Miss Potts said. She gathered up the rest of her papers. “If that will be all, Lord Stark?”

“That will be all, Miss Potts.” Tony nodded politely as she left, then picked up his coffee cup and considered whether he could drown in it.

“It will be good for you to get outside once in a while,” Jarvis said. “I think it all very well that you not become a recluse.”

“I’ve been outside,” Tony protested. “There was that picnic only, what, a week past?”

“My lord,” Jarvis said, the face on full display again, “that was almost a month ago.”

Tony blinked in surprise. “Was it?” That turnkey problem must have been taking more of his time than he thought.

“Go out,” Jarvis said, patting his hand almost fondly. “It will do you some good.”

“I very much doubt that,” Tony complained, “but it seems that is my fate.”

Bucky, as usual, was lingering in one of the smaller breakfast rooms; having breakfast together would be an awful intimacy, and Jarvis would not have allowed it at all, unless Tony was being particularly lordly.

Both Jarvis and Bucky, however, seemed to have Tony’s lordly appearances in mind, so Bucky had never even asked. Nor, probably, would have accepted if Tony was to ask _him_.

“The house is already abuzz,” Bucky said, offering Tony one of the less reputable rags, which had a similar query as to Tony’s whereabouts. This one, as well, speculated on the rehousing of the opera group, and included a few snide lines as to the talents and skills of the singers. “Are we imposing too much?”

“Not in the slightest,” Tony promised. “They just can’t seem to work it through their tiny brains why I might possibly prefer this company to their own.” He leaned against the table and allowed himself a sigh. “But in the interest of not being _entirely_ written off by Society, I’ve engaged to attend a house party next week.”

“Ah,” Bucky said. “And all the eligibles will be out, to court your favor. That’s the real reason, you know. They can’t stand the idea of all this wealth being unavailable to them. And you certainly must marry. Eventually.”

Tony pulled a face. “I know. I just loathe the idea of selecting a spouse from that pack of gold diggers and social climbers. If I must marry, I want someone I can actually have a conversation with from time to time.”

“There are some of those,” Bucky said, fondly. “I mean, _you’re_ brilliant. You just have to find the daughters and sons who’d rather not be there either. Try the library.”

Tony chuckled. “I suppose lightning might strike twice.” He didn’t give voice to the thought that he wasn’t really interested in finding anyone at all, not while Bucky held his heart. That was the road to heartbreak, there. More heartbreak than the cards already held. “I wish I could take you with me,” he admitted.

Bucky laughed. “I’d just embarrass you. The swells-- er, your fellow peers, they don’t mind me being around, so long as I know my place.” He brushed a finger along Tony’s jaw. “It’ll be well. If nothing else, a few hours away, and you’ll have some new ideas for your workshop.”

Tony captured Bucky’s hand and pressed a kiss into the palm. “Well, that might make the tedium worth it,” he said lightly. “Heaven knows I can always use more ideas for the workshop.”

“I think you’re going to change the world, some day, with all your fancy ideas,” Bucky told him. “In the meanwhile, if you don’t mind me singing while you work, I have some practicing to do. Steve-- Mr. Rog-- No, Steve, why not, you already know we’re not formal in the company. Steve’s been getting on my case about not doing my vocalizing.”

“That sounds nice, actually,” Tony said. It felt like his chest was finally able to expand, to draw a full breath. “By all means, come sing for me while I work.”

Bucky took a last sip of his tea, and then smiled. “Let’s do that, then-- sounds like that, also, will be very good for you.”

“You’re always very good for me.”

* * *

There was a smallish pond, not far from the Stark’s townhome. It wasn’t fancy, or even tended to regularly by city gardeners. It was just a hole in the ground with water, and ducks weren’t picky.

They’d go anywhere to swim, and if some idiot lovesick opera singer happened to go there to brood, and to throw breadcrumbs for them, they were happy with that, too.

Bucky was very diligent with his breadcrumbs, trying to make sure that all the ducks got an equitable share, but the bigger, louder ducks did tend to make that harder.

“Nat said you’d be out here brooding,” Steve said from behind him. A moment later, he was standing beside Bucky, reaching over to break a chunk off the stale bread.

“It’s hardly brooding,” Bucky said. “I’m not a mother chicken sitting on a nest of woes.”

“Well, if you don’t like that word, she had a few others,” Steve said wryly, throwing his own scatter of crumbs. “Sulking, wallowing, languishing... Nat’s got a heck of a way with words.”

“Yeah?” Bucky marveled. “Perhaps you’ve said a few to her, as well, like _Oh, Natasha, I know I have nothing but this very successful opera company to my name, but would you_ \--” He was laughing hard enough he couldn’t finish, as Steve threw the chunk of bread at him, and the ducks decided Bucky’s lap was fair game.

After order had been restored, and Bucky was brushing feathers off his trousers, he finally _looked_ at Steve. “If you’re here to tell me that I shouldn’t fall in love with Stark, save your breath. I’ve already heard it.”

“Nah.” Steve sat on the bench next to Bucky. “That ship’s long since sailed, in case you hadn’t realized it.”

“I’m very fond of Tony,” Bucky started, a bit stiffly.

“You’re head over heels,” Steve corrected. “Can’t remember the last time I saw you in such a flush.”

“Untrue,” Bucky protested. “I was in a right way over Dottie. Remember her?” Lovely girl, daughter of a dairy farmer. She’d kept stealing away one summer, to watch the company perform, and Bucky couldn’t get enough, staring.

“I remember you spending our lodgings budget to buy fripperies for her,” Steve said drily, “and I remember her father about taking your head off when he realized where she’d been sneaking off to.”

“Eh, he was just scared she was going to run off with the company and leave him with all those cows to milk all by himself.”

“Most like,” Steve agreed. “Did you ever think she would?”

“Run off, you mean? No. And I don’t think it would be the life for her. She thought it sounded exciting, but, you know it’s really not, most of the time. It’s wet and sometimes the food is terrible, and sometimes no food at all-- she wouldn’t have been happy.”

Steve hummed. “It’s nice, here,” he said after a moment. “With Stark. Even if he did stuff me in the nursery.”

“We’ve had worse accommodations,” Bucky said. Which was true. And they’d had better, once. “Remember when the Prince’s consort stuffed us in a wing of the royal palace? That was some fancy digs.”

“Yeah, that was pretty nice, too,” Steve allowed. “Still, I think you could be happy here. You know, if you wanted to stay.”

Bucky almost protested, immediately and vehemently, that he wasn’t going to leave the troupe. Which was probably true. But that wasn’t the question, was it? “I like him,” Bucky admitted. Which wasn’t quite the same thing as loving the man, but that was also true. “If everything was fair and easy, I could spend the rest of my life--” Just being near him.

But would it be enough? And the world wasn’t just, or fair. It was harsh and cruel and divided -- forgive the pun -- starkly, between the rich and the poor, the aristocrats and everyone else.

Bucky couldn’t stay.

Because Tony was going to have to marry eventually. That was something of a social requirement for the nobility. Pass on the line, the money, the land. Someone had to do it. And if Stark got much older, the priesthood would land here with both feet, trying to get Tony to will the land to the Church.

Which the King did not like. And it was in no one’s best interests to be on the wrong side of the King. Kings could tear the country from the arms of the church and make a new one, not in God’s image, but in their own.

“But things aren’t fair and easy,” Steve summed, when Bucky had been silent for a while. “Yeah. Still -- he makes you an offer you like, you don’t gotta hesitate ‘cause of _us_. You know that, right? We’d... we’d all be happy, as long as you were happy.”

“You just want to save all the leading roles for your new protege,” Bucky teased. Then, more seriously, “He won’t offer. I mean, he’s-- he talks about the end of the summer, and missing me. He’s… he won’t offer.”

Steve grunted. “He looks at you like you hung the moon and set candle to the sun. He might offer, if he knew you might accept.”

“I--” Bucky didn’t know what to say. There were words out there, he knew they must exist. Some poet or playwright would have thought them up before Bucky and his pitiful woes were on the stage. Because he would stay. If Tony asked. Even if it were for nothing but heartache and eventual, well-meaning betrayal. He’d stay.

So, he couldn’t allow Tony to ask.

It would just hurt both of them, in the end.

“All those plays and stories we tell,” Steve said, tossing out the last of his bread and slumping back on the bench. “Seems like one of us ought to get a happy ending for true.”

“I’m happy enough,” Bucky said. “We’re not all tragic players, here. It’ll be well, Steve. I promise. Might be a little sad for a bit, but it’ll fade.”

“Yeah, Buck.” Steve nudged Bucky with one bony elbow. “You know you got me, anyway. To the end of the line.”

“Always,” Bucky said. “To the end of the line.”

* * *

“My lord, may I speak frankly?” Jarvis asked. He had Tony’s coat, neatly tucked over his arm, but was not yet holding it out for him.

Tony checked his cuffs and brushed down his shirt. “You know I depend entirely upon your candid advice, Jarvis. What’s on your mind?”

“Do not forget, I have known you since you were a small child, Anthony. You are better known for ignoring all advice and getting into trouble.” But Jarvis’s smile was fond, not scolding. It had been quite a long while since he’d called Tony _Anthony_ , as well. “As to what is on my mind, well, a great many more thoughts than hairs, these days. I suppose we do all get old, don’t we? How things change.”

“It’s not like you to wax nostalgic,” Tony observed. “Are you quite well?” He said it teasingly, but his heart stuttered in panic at the thought that Jarvis -- the one rock-solid constant of Tony’s entire life -- was aging and might be ill. 

“Quite fit,” Jarvis said. “But it does not change the fact that I am getting on. I have long been concerned that you-- do not place as high a value on your own health and happiness as you might place on others. Your own comforts. I have done my best to guard and guide you, much as you’ve fought me on any number of occasions.”

“I’m quite certain it was you who taught me that it is the first duty of every nobleman to ensure the welfare of those who owe him their fealty,” Tony pointed out. “But do tell me, what comforts do you believe I am denying myself?” He glanced around, taking in the elegant and well-maintained manor house and all its trappings.

“The comforts of being loved, and respected, by those who share your life-- and more importantly, your bed,” Jarvis said. There was the faintest hint of color in the old man’s cheeks. He didn’t usually talk frankly with Tony about his lovers. Or, no more so than to disapprove. 

Tony suppressed a sigh. “I haven’t forgotten the need for an heir,” he said. “I’m going to the house party--”

“My lord, that’s not what I’m speaking about--” Jarvis actually interrupted him, which was beyond astonishing. “I’m speaking of you, personally. As a man. Being loved. Allowing yourself to experience it, taking it when it is offered to you.”

Tony paused and turned to look at Jarvis more closely. “I haven’t denied myself such companionship,” he said. “Not even in the face of your certain disapproval. What’s changed, now?”

“Your father, you know, was a great man,” Jarvis said, and the change of subject was not particularly welcome. “Not, perhaps, a good father. But a great man. And he believed that the prosperity of the estate was the greatest good, requiring every possible sacrifice. I-- if you held a knife to my throat, my lord, and asked me, I would say that was not true. That your personal happiness is a worthy goal, perhaps even greater, than the _estate_. The lands and the people will live on, even if someone of Stark blood does not rule them. And I believe, as someone who has watched you grow, that you are getting ready to sacrifice your happiness, for the imagined good of the estate. Tony-- I would not have you do that.”

“To sacrifice my-- Jarvis, are you talking about _Bucky?_ ” Jarvis had never shown anything but disdain for Tony’s companions.

“It may unfortunately be true that I have misjudged Master Barnes,” Jarvis said. “He seems to care a great deal for you, to honor you, and treat you as more than a mere patron.”

“So you’re suggesting I should-- what? Give up my seat and run away to join a band of traveling performers?”

“Have you, perhaps, met Sir Coulson? Lovely fellow, owns a house just two streets over from us,” Jarvis said. “His wife, Lady May, made quite a splash, really, when she married him. He’s a knight, you know. Not of noble birth, not landed at all, until he happened to get the attention of the king. It may be an item of some gossip, but it’s not-- unheard of.”

Really, Tony couldn’t have been more shocked if the dignified old man had started to dance a jig. “You think I should pursue a knighthood for Mr. Barnes,” Tony repeated slowly, “so that I can marry him?”

“I think if the world does not recognize the worth of Mr. Barnes, it is fairly dull and insipid,” Jarvis said. “But sometimes people don’t see worth, without a fancy title. So, you must then obtain it for him.”

Tony couldn’t help a short bark of laughter. “Perhaps so,” he said. “I will... consider what you’ve said. “But in the meantime, I had given my word to attend this house party, and I shall require my coat.”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” Jarvis said, shaking it out. “It’s good of you to remind me.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills bingo square:  
> \- for 27dragons, Bucky Barnes Bingo, square B4 - Alcohol

Lady Hanson was always something of an enigma. She was whip-smart, funny, gracious, ridiculously wealthy. She had a son just starting his years at school, and until a few years ago, a husband stationed in India that no one had ever met. She'd left half-mourning the previous year and was enjoying her newfound return to society by throwing a truly ridiculous amount of parties.

“Lord Stark,” she gushed as he made his way through the announcements, holding out her hands to him. “Imagine my delight that I could tempt you into an outing.”

Tony took the offered hands and kissed the air a fingersbreadth above them. “If you will in turn imagine my own pleasure at lifting my head from my tinkering to discover your invitation awaiting me,” he returned. “Truly, it’s been too long.”

 _Too long that I’ve been here,_ Tony silently amended, never letting his smile waver. Even if it had only been half an hour.

“You shall have to tell me about your latest inventions,” she said. “And I should love an opportunity to show you my new water system in the greenhouse. Your notes helped me _enormously_.”

“Did they indeed?” That, at least, was something vaguely interesting. Tony didn’t quite grasp Lady Hanson’s love of plants, but the challenge of a complex watering system for her extensive greenhouses had been worth sinking his teeth into. “I look forward to the tour, then.”

“There’s dancing, which of course, I know you long to avoid, but if only to please me, attempt to stand up with someone, we’ve a shortage of gentlemen tonight. And cards and dice in the drawing room.”

“I’ll take a turn or two,” Tony promised, “if you will be one of them.” At least that wouldn’t set tongues wagging -- well, no more than they ever did, at least. Everyone knew that Lady Hanson was in no rush to share her estate with a new spouse.

And then, well, he’d take a turn through the games and see if there was any sport to be found there.

“You’re a dear,” she said, patting his hand fondly. “Do enjoy yourself.” She would probably be stuck in the line for another hour at least, but Tony could have something to eat, make some debutante’s evening by dancing with her (or, on the other hand, endear himself to a wallflower’s mother, by singling one out) and tend to Lady Hanson, before having some _actual_ entertainment. It shouldn’t be so terrible, really, although Tony was well aware of the empty space at his side.

At least Lady Hanson didn’t believe in watering down her punch. Tony took a cup and emptied it in two smooth swallows. There would be stronger stuff served in the cards room, but a cup or two of punch was sufficient to get Tony through an hour of insipid small talk. He accepted a dainty bite from a waiter and surveyed the room as he nibbled on it, picking out the faces he knew and sorting them into mental categories of “approach” and “avoid”; the new faces were similarly ranked according to their conversational partners and apparent level of enthusiasm.

Tony rescued one young eligible from what seemed to be a tedious conversation. Viscount Lafayette's daughter, Lunella, had been dubbed Moon Girl by some of her peers for her tendency to stare off into space, daydreaming. She was, under that, astonishingly bright, and a bruisingly good horsewoman. She only stepped on Tony’s toes twice, while they discussed the newest formula to be talked about in the papers, Mr. Aspdin’s invention, Portland cement. 

That was a far more promising start than he’d hoped for, and he bowed over Miss Lafayette’s hand with something like gratitude as he went in search of another cup of punch. He made his way around the room, exchanging greetings with those acquaintances he liked and avoiding those he didn’t, sometimes even with success. He introduced two who’d somehow not previously met and watched with delight and amusement as they immediately befriended one another.

It seemed a great many servers were circling the room with trays of drinks, and the punch table. At least if talking was thirsty work, Tony was getting well paid to do it.

Lady Hanson came around, claimed her dance, and then, with a wink, liberated a few more drinks. “Come, let me show you my new greenhouse,” she said. The walkways to the greenhouses were lit -- apparently she was giving the tour to a number of people. Servants held up lanterns, to better view the vegetation. Of course it was the piping system Tony was most interested in, a series of levers that would direct water to sections of the greenhouse to moisten the soil, without overwatering.

“It will be even more efficient,” she promised, “when we integrate your system of clockworks, so that a man does not need to be employed to stand at the station for most of the day. They get bored, you know. And nothing leads to trouble like bored men.”

“I do believe I have noticed that same thing,” Tony agreed, chuckling. He inspected the levers and the mechanism they were connected to. “Really quite clever,” he praised. “Have you thought of having them produced, to benefit other enthusiasts?”

“I’ve provided the plans to some of my tenants. Not having to depend on the rain,” she said, with a shrug. “Of course, we’re in England, so it’s usually raining. Still-- it might be of some use.”

“Quite,” Tony agreed. “I wonder if you might allow me a copy as well.”

“Hmmm,” Lady Hanson said, running her finger thoughtfully over a bloom. “Perhaps we might discuss it further. If you’d be so kind as to give me your arm for a night at the opera?”

“The opera,” Tony repeated dumbly. “Who’s playing?”

“Oh, don’t be that way,” she said, laughing. “Everyone knows about your little conquest. It’s all his nibbs has been able to speak of, since he arrived. Dreadfully boring, if you ask me. I wouldn’t have invited him at all, but he’s an old friend of my dear, departed husband, so I really couldn’t avoid it.”

“His ni-- You mean Killian?” Tony said, eyebrows raising. “I’d have thought this sort of entertainment a trifle too... sedate for his tastes.”

“As I said, I wouldn’t have invited him, out of preference,” Lady Hanson said. She took up another glass of champagne and offered one to Tony. “He’s been in the game room all night, at least.”

“Well, there is that,” Tony said. “Perhaps when we’re done here, I shall go and trounce him thoroughly, so he’ll want to retire earlier.”

“Oh, do,” she said. “He’s been nothing but a bore, and an annoying one at that.”

“For your sake, then, Lady Hanson,” Tony said, bowing over her hand. “I shall take my leave of you, and seek out the games.”

“Do enjoy yourself,” she said, smiling widely. “I’m sure you’ll play brilliantly, as always.”

Against Killian, he could hardly do any less. Tony took one last look at the piping system, then made his way back into the house and down the corridor in search of the games.

Lord Killian was reigning, as he often did when Tony wasn’t around. It wasn’t that he was a bad player -- he really wasn’t, unless one considered aggression a moral failing in cards. He often intimidated his opponents with his decisive moves and his expressionless face. And he did have that reputation of being a demon for cards.

That said, there were always people willing to shuffle a deck and sit down with him, to be slowly relieved of the burdens of their coinpurse.

“My Lord Killian,” Tony said as he approached the table. “What a pleasant surprise. I hadn’t thought to look for you here.”

“Stark,” Killian said, almost agreeably. “Finally come out of hiding, I see. Do pull up a chair, I’m sure we can deal you in shortly.”

Tony found a chair and sprawled in it to watch the hand play out. “I’ve been busy,” he excused himself. “Truly, I don’t know where the time went.”

“I could speculate,” Killian said, tossing down a few more coins. “But I’ve heard the rumor that a gentleman never tells.”

“Not that there are any such here,” one of the other players said. “If you’ve got gossip, share, otherwise, I raise and call.”

“What gossip could I possibly have,” Tony wondered, “after several weeks of isolation?”

“Isolated? Truly?” Killian’s mock-pity was almost cloying, really. “You mustn’t say you’re bored already, dear fellow.”

“Bored? No, never. I’m always able to amuse myself.” He gave Killian a thin little smile. “Surely you’re not still put out over that little incident, are you? You must have moved on to better things by now.”

“I’ve learned not to expect too much from you, at least,” Killian said. “Always so eager, it would be impressive if it wasn’t so very sad. Here, sit. Let me at least the joy of taking some of your coin.” He shuffled the cards several times, not looking away from Tony as he did so.

Tony scoffed as he straightened up and motioned for the deal. “You may make the attempt,” he said lightly.

“Well, perhaps we can make it more interesting,” Killian offered. “A little-- personal.”

Tony cocked his head, not picking up the cards. “What did you have in mind?”

“I want him back,” Killian said. “Just for a night. I think I’m owed. If I win, you send him back to me. In exchange, I put up, full shares in AIM, including patent rights for our steam engines. Seems fair.”

Tony could hardly even summon words. “Fair?” he managed. “He’s a _man_ , not a trinket! I can’t just hand him over, even if I wanted to.”

“Too rich for your blood, I see,” Killian said. “Nevermind. Shares in AIM against shares in Stark Industries, then?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Fine.” It wasn’t as if he were going to _lose_.

“You’d have done better to take the first bet,” one of the other players said. “An opera singer’s not very valuable. Hardly equal to the cost of a good hunting dog.”

The rest of the men laughed at that, and the talk turned from the bet to the various singers they’d known -- and _known_ \-- in their time, and what their relative value was.

Tony tuned them out and picked up his cards, Not an altogether terrible opener. Someone placed a glass at his elbow. He picked it up and sipped -- not Lady Hanson’s best; it had a woody aftertaste that wasn’t entirely pleasant. “Ten shares,” he bid.

* * *

Tony stared at the upturned cards. How... how could he have lost? He’d never lost to Killian like this before. There shouldn’t have been another King left in that deck, and yet...

He rubbed at his forehead. The room was spinning unpleasantly. He hadn’t had _that_ much to drink. Must be the shock of losing -- he ran a quick tally and felt the blood drain from his face -- nearly half the company. “Where the hell did that King come from?” Tony muttered.

“ _You_ dealt it to me,” Killian said, all but gloating. No, scratch that. He was gloating, looking down at the pile of pounds and shillings and the written agreements. Forty-seven percent of the shares from Stark Industries. “Or did you forget that part?”

Tony shook his head, ignoring the way the room spun around him. “No,” he said. “No, it’s not possible, the King... No. It wasn’t in the deck.”

“And yet, here it is,” Killian said, waving his hand over the play. A straight flush, ten to ace, all in spades.

“No,” Tony repeated. No matter how hot it was in the room, making him dizzy, he could _count fucking cards_ , and the King hadn’t been in the deck. “You cheated. Somehow. You--”

There was a collective, tense stillness that fell over the room. Killian’s jovial smile of triumph fell off his face, and everyone turned to see what he’d say.

“Are you calling me a cheat, Lord Stark?”

“Yes,” Tony snarled. “This is nothing but petty revenge.”

“Very well, then,” and Killian reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his gloves. He shook one, and then threw it on the table. “I shall have my second call upon yours. If you have any friends who are willing to stand up with you, after making such an accusation.” He glanced around at the card players. As if he could not believe what was happening. As if Killian were the injured party here. “You saw him, making the deal, and then accusing me?”

“You can’t possibly be serious,” Tony said. “There was no King in the deck, that-- Killian, you know as well as I do that there was no King in the deck!” He stood up and the world tilted around him. He grabbed the back of the chair for balance. “Withdraw the hand,” he said, trying to sound reasonable, “and we’ll play it again.”

“I will do no such thing,” Killian said. “You are drunk. And you lost. And you are casting accusations. I tell you, Stark, it will not stand, and if you refuse to meet me at dawn--”

Social suicide, that would be. Tony sneered as he snatched up the glove. “I’m no coward. Name your place.”

“Green Park, then, at dawn.”

Dueling was a time-honored tradition wherein two idiots would meet to brandish guns or wave swords at each other, and a short time later anywhere between zero and two idiots would leave again. Almost never did anyone actually shoot at each other, these days. Most of the time, deloping was the order of a duel. Honor was satisfied, and the two parties would attempt to act like reasonable human beings again.

Most of the time.

Tony somewhat doubted that Killian was going to let his nonexistent honor be settled with a gesture. “Dawn, then.” He managed to make it to the door without entirely falling over, though he did have to lean on the wall a few times. Just how much had he had to drink?

Didn’t matter. He needed to get home. To put his affairs in order, to ensure his people would be all right. Even if Killian didn’t kill him, he was going to lose... God, almost everything.

Certainly he wouldn’t be able to afford to keep the troupe anymore. Or Bucky. Grief squeezed at his lungs; he’d thought he would have more time. He’d thought, even, that they might find a way...

He stumbled into the carriage more by feel than sight and slumped into the corner and pressed his hands over his eyes. How could he have been so foolish?

* * *

Tony didn’t usually consider himself impolite -- or at least, only impolite to people who deserved rudeness -- but when James Rhodes’ butler answered the door looking more than a little put out, Tony debated just going home to rethink his life.

The butler raised one eyebrow and held out a hand for Tony’s card, as if he didn’t know Tony at all and also as if his own master was used to receiving inebriated guests at all hours of the night.

Tony knew for a fact that the butler knew who he was. Also that Rhodey had, in fact, invited Tony in on any number of inebriated occasions.

But the butler closed the door in his face, leaving him outside on the stoop to consider if he was actually going to wake Rhodey or not.

Tony backed out into the carriage drive, looking up at the windows, trying to figure out which one belonged to Rhodey. If he was going to have to climb the trellis, he wanted to get it right on the first attempt.

Of course, dizzy as he still was, he might just fall and break his neck, solving any number of problems for many people.

After some time -- perhaps long enough for the butler to decide Tony wasn’t actually going to leave -- there was a light in one of the upstairs rooms, and then, after a moment, more light. The curtain drew back and Rhodey, dressed in a ridiculous grey and red nightcap and gown, peered out at him.

Tony could almost hear him sigh from two floors away.

But when the door opened, it was Rhodey, and not the butler, who was framed by the dim candlelight.

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Tony said, “but I’m going to tell you anyway.” He took a breath, and looked his oldest friend in the eye. “I need a second.”

“Take all the seconds you need,” Rhodey said. “You look a bit the worse for wear. Take a whole damn minute, if you want.”

Tony sighed. “Not that kind of a second.”

“You challenged someone to a duel? Tony, duels are _illegal_ , you know that, right?”

“I didn’t issue the challenge,” Tony growled. “That was Killian, the cheating bastard.”

“You actually called him a cheating bastard? In public?” Rhodey looked him up and down. “You did. Come on in, you may as well sit down before you fall over. You know, Layton thought you were going to cast your accounts up on the stoop.”

“I’m not that drunk.” Tony leaned against the pillar. “Shouldn’t be drunk at all. Have you ever known me to get drunk on _punch?_ ” He shook his head, then stopped, because it made him even more dizzy.

“No, but I have known you to get drunk, and that’s what I’m looking at, right here,” Rhodey said.

Tony sighed. “Will you do it, or not?” he asked. “Almost worth hoping he kills me. Then I won’t have to be around to see him run SI into the ground.”

“Of course I’ll be your second,” Rhodey said. “Don’t be daft. And he won’t kill you. That would be stupid, and he’d get arrested for murder. Your title is older than his, you outrank him.” Rhodey held up his fingers. “Just a little.”

Tony rubbed at his temples, which were starting to throb. “Well, maybe I’ll kill him, then,” he muttered.

“That’s probably an even worse idea,” Rhodey said. “Reason with him in the morning. People are always less angry in the morning. You both shoot into the air, and no one’s harmed except some annoyed pigeons.”

“ _I’m_ not going to be less angry,” Tony said. “He wanted me to put _Bucky_ in the betting pot, like the man was a pretty necklace. And then he cheated me out of--” Tony swayed, let Rhodey catch him. “Forty-seven percent of my holdings in SI.”

Rhodey didn’t quite have to gasp. “Um, if I’m not mistaken, doesn’t Obadiah Stane hold ten percent?”

“Yes,” Tony gritted. “Which means that together, they can outvote me.”

“Are you sure you’re not drunk?” Rhodey said, peering at Tony’s face, carefully. “Killian’s never beat you at cards. And you’re usually not that much of a fool, even when you are drunk. I don’t like this at all, Tones.”

“Me, neither,” Tony said. “But what else can I do? Whole roomful of ‘em watched the game, and not one of them stood behind me when I called him a cheater. You got any ideas, I’m listening.”

“If he’s willing to talk, give him concessions,” Rhodey said. “If not. I changed my mind. Go ahead and kill him. You’re a better shot.” Which may or may not have been true. Killian was a damn good marksman. And Tony had never killed anyone before. It was the sort of thing where hesitating could cost him everything.

Well. He would just have to be sure not to hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said. “Much as I hate to annoy Layton further... Spot of tea, before we head out? I need something to clear my head.”

“He’s already taking care of it,” Rhodey said. “While he professes the opinion that all of my friends are hooligans, ruffians, and idiots, he nonetheless supports my loyalties. I already knew whatever you wanted was going to require tea.”

“That’s because you’re the best, honeypot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Layton, the butler, is named for War Machine’s original inker and penciler, Bob Layton.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills tisfan's Bucky Barnes Bingo square I3: Disability.

A rough hand was shaking him. “Wake up! Bucky! You have to wake up, _now_.”

Bucky shuddered and sat up, careful to keep his head low to avoid the caravan’s roof-- wait. He wasn’t in the caravan. It wasn’t the local village men set to run them off as thieves and whores. He was in Tony Stark’s manor house, and--

“Natasha?”

“Get up,” she said urgently. Apparently satisfied that he was awake, she spun away, snatching up his clothes and all but throwing them at him. “Get dressed.”

Bucky scrambled up, reaching for his clothes. He didn’t really care if Natasha saw his naked legs; she’d seen much more of him than that. Modesty was a luxury on the stage. They’d all seen each other in various states of undress. “Is the house ablaze? Is Steve ill? Nat-- what is going on?”

“You need to get to Green Park,” she said. She stalked to the window and pulled back the heavy curtain, peering up at the sky. “By dawn.”

“That’s no sort of answer,” Bucky said, but he got his feet stuffed into his boots and started lacing them up.

“Stark’s gotten himself into a duel,” she said, and turned to look at him, her eyes nearly glowing in the dim light of the lamp. “With Killian.”

That-- “That’s not good,” Bucky said. Killian had a reputation. No one could prove anything, but the rumor went he’d actually killed a few men and left their bodies at the scene. He dressed faster, leaving his waistcoat behind and his jacket’s buttons opened. “You have a horse?”

She nodded. “In the yard. I don’t know what you can do, but... You have to do _some_ thing.”

Bucky grabbed his satchel, pulled out his ancient pistol. It had been his father’s once, and the only thing he had left from his family. No circumstances yet had been dire enough for him to pawn it, nor serious enough to use it as more than a threat. “I can keep Killian from having his cronies ambush Tony, at the very least.”

He loaded the pistol and tucked it in his belt. “Rouse the company,” he said. “I don’t know what will happen, but be prepared.”

Usually that meant, be prepared to run.

Maybe this time it could mean something else, but Bucky didn’t even know what to hope for. He exited the manor and all but threw himself into the saddle.

The silver of false dawn hung in the air. He needed to hurry.

“We’ll be ready,” Natasha promised, the end of her words fading as Bucky shot off into the darkness.

There was a mist in the air over Green Park, and the grass was covered in wet dew that would shine like diamonds when the sun touched it. At the far side of the park, near the pond, a cluster of men already stood, stiff-backed and hushed.

Bucky yanked his horse to a halt, causing it to stamp and toss its head impatiently. He stared around, the trees, the green--

There. At least one man, a long rifle, concealed from the duelists. Obviously there to shoot Tony in the back.

Probably. Unless there were just random assassins laying in the tall weeds of a nearby grassy knoll.

At the pond, the seconds were conferring. Tony’s was a tall, austere-looking lord with a military bearing. Behind him, Tony looked small, rumpled, and pale.

The hidden man was lifting his barrel, testing the air and the distance to be covered.

There was nothing else to be done. He dared not draw the shooter’s attention, lest he let fire the round now and hope for the best. And he was well outside of pistol range.

Bucky slid off the horse, slapping its rump. The poor, dumb beast would probably make it back to the manor before someone caught it -- this time of day, there weren’t many out to try to catch a loose mount. Bucky kept to the shadows, relying on everyone’s concentration on other matters to stay concealed, coming up to flank the shooter.

Whoever the shooter was, he was well certain that he was invisible; he wasn’t looking away from the scene by the pond at all. Bucky wondered if he was even blinking as he made minute adjustments to his weapon.

Carefully, Bucky crept closer.

A sudden shout rang through the misty morning. Killian’s second was pointing -- right at Bucky. The shooter whirled around, bringing his rifle to bear. The report of a pistol sounded, and then another, and -- painfully loud, the rifle fired, a puff of blue smoke obscuring the man’s face for a moment.

Strange that Bucky was screaming, before he even felt pain.

Blood splattered in a gruesome arc and his legs gave out. 

There was a blackness there, creeping over the edge of his vision.

For a moment, Bucky tried to raise his head, tried to see Tony, tried to make sure Tony wasn’t hurt--

But he couldn’t see….

...anything

* * *

“What the hell is going on?” Tony demanded, clutching the still-smoking pistol as he strode toward the wall of greenery.

A spatter of blood on the bushes gave testament to the man Tony had shot, though he was gone, now, heavy footprints marring the dew on the grass where he’d run away. Behind him, collapsed on the ground, was--

“Bucky!” Tony all but flung his pistol aside as he threw himself onto the ground at Bucky’s side. “Oh, God, sweetheart, don’t, don’t be--” He ripped at Bucky’s shirt, frantic, feeling for any hope of a heartbeat.

A moment later, the doctor, a sober man with a crisp, black beard and greying hair, was there. “We must stop the bleeding,” he said. Bucky was drenched in it, making it impossible to see how badly injured he was. The doctor dug in his bag, pulling out a tourniquet kit. “Hold him. He’s still alive, but he won’t be for much longer.”

“Hold-- hold where--” Tony finally saw where all the blood was coming from -- his arm had been badly wounded, almost shattered. “Right.” He knelt up and put both hands on Bucky’s shoulders, leaning hard to keep him from moving as the doctor worked. He glanced up and caught Rhodey’s eye.

Rhodey, bless him, didn’t hesitate; he knelt in the grass, wet with blood and the morning dew, and pinned down Bucky’s legs.

In the background, somewhere beyond Tony’s ability to care about it, Killian was talking. Tony didn’t know who he was talking to, or why-- none of it mattered, not right now.

Bucky screamed, and the doctor did something, twisted, or--

“Damn,” the doctor said. “In my bag, there’s laudanum. See if you can get him to take a few swallows.”

Tony looked around frantically and dragged the bag closer. He scrabbled through the contents, finally finding the little bottle. He uncorked it with shaking hands. “Bucky, honey, it’s going to be okay, we’re going to take care of you, just--” He had no idea if Bucky could even hear him. He watched Bucky’s head toss as he cried out, and dribbled a measure of the laudanum into Bucky’s mouth as it opened again. “That’s it, sweetheart, drink that down, it’s going to help.”

“Get my cart,” the doctor barked, and even though Killian’s second wasn’t exactly pleased to be ordered about, on the dueling field, the doctor was king.

It wasn’t too long, and yet much too long, before Bucky was loaded into the cart, the blood slowed to a dribble. “I’m going to take him back to my hospital,” the doctor told Tony. “You may accompany me.”

Rhodey squeezed Tony’s arm, leaving a crimson handprint there. “I’ll take care of this,” Rhodey promised. “Find out what the hell happened. Lord Killian definitely fired.”

“So did I,” Tony murmured, though he’d been aiming at the rifleman -- but as jittery as he’d been all morning, who knew? Maybe he was the one who’d shot Bucky?

Well, it was the rifle that had done the most damage, almost certainly; from the pond, a pistol’s bullet would have incapacitated the arm, no doubt, but it wasn’t likely to have shattered it like that. That took a higher-powered shot, or a much closer shooter.

But that didn’t mean Tony hadn’t shot Bucky, on accident, as well. He pressed his lips together and clapped Rhodey’s shoulder before turning to follow the doctor.

The doctor shook his head. “Idiots and guns,” he said, and got his horse moving, slow enough not to rock the cart too much, quicker than walking. “I don’t know why I let myself be talked into attending duels. Hope for mankind, perhaps, that they’ll eventually do something intelligent, like not kill each other.”

“Hope that you can save the idiots waving the guns around?” Tony suggested. He couldn’t quite take his eyes off Bucky, looking so pale and lifeless.

“Quite,” the doctor said. He turned onto a smaller lane, the buildings a little shabby. “Are you-- related?”

Tony almost laughed. Was it only yesterday he’d dared to dream of Bucky at his side, Tony’s husband before all the world? Not even a full day. “I’m his patron,” Tony said. Let the doctor make of that what he would.

“Here, we’re here, help me lift him,” the doctor said. They got Bucky inside and into a bed without too much -- Tony hoped -- pain. “I need to speak very seriously with you, Lord Stark. He’s not going to be in a condition to make decisions. Can you speak for him, about his care?”

“As much as anyone can, I suppose.” If there was time, Tony would send for Mr. Rogers or Ms. Romanov -- they seemed to stand for Bucky’s family among the troupe -- but in the moment, at least, Tony would do his best for Bucky.

“I will do the best I can,” the doctor said. “But it’s possible that the arm will have to be removed, to save his life.”

Tony had to grab the bedpost to keep from swaying. “Damn. I-- Obviously, better to have one arm and a life,” he said. “But damn.”

“It is not always an easy choice,” the doctor agreed. “And some men find they are too diminished by the loss. But gangrene is a far worse fate. I will see what I can do, but the bone appears-- splintered. Even if I can save the arm, it will likely not be usable.”

Tony closed his eyes against the swimming sensation of guilt and sorrow. “He’s... He’s a strong man,” Tony managed. “Do what you have to do, to keep him alive.” And then Tony would do whatever _he_ had to do, to make sure Bucky would live comfortably. Even if Bucky wanted nothing more to do with Tony.

“Very well,” the doctor said. “You-- might want to step outside. I’m told that surgery isn’t the most comfortable thing to witness. If you choose to stay--” The man washed his hands thoroughly in a bucket. “--you will want to wash your hands, and please don’t breathe on my patient.”

Watching Bucky be cut was definitely not going to be comfortable, Tony was certain. But what else was he to do? Sit on the step and listen for the screams? Wait, idle? He shook his head and plunged his hands into the bucket. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

* * *

Opera singers were rarely wealthy individuals -- the troupe was rich, but Bucky himself could pack all his belongings in a single trunk and have space left over.

He wasn’t wealthy in terms of coin, but in those things that mattered. Friends. Experiences.

He was well-travelled, having journeyed across the country many times, and the troupe had even done a few Continental tours. He’d been to France and Germany, Spain and Italy. He could speak a half dozen languages well enough to ask for bed and breakfast, and that wasn’t even counting how many languages he could sing in and be understood.

But he’d never seen anything like this before.

White sandy beach stretched as far as he could see in almost every direction. The sea, blue and tranquil, stretched itself over the shore, and then the waves receded. The water was brushing over his toes, and he sat up, trying to figure out where he was.

But there was nothing-- white sand, blue ocean, clear sky.

He stood up, went to brush the sand from his clothes-- but he couldn’t really move his arm for some reason. And there was no sand to brush away. 

He heard gulls, and because where there were birds, there was usually something for birds to eat, he went that way. There was nothing else to lead him. Endless beach in all directions.

Like the great desert -- one of the few sights he’d never beheld, but had read many descriptions thereof -- Sahara. Nothingness. 

In the distance, he saw a woman, and as he got closer, he knew her. His mother, long dead and near-forgotten. She didn’t look any different than she had the last time Bucky saw her. Maybe a little healthier, the rich brown hair pinned to her head in a neat bun. She was making soup, Bucky thought.

Cutting vegetables and dropping them into a pot.

Except there was no pot.

And no soup.

But he knew it was there, even when he couldn’t see it.

A girl came up -- Bucky didn’t know who she was, or where she’d come from -- and held out her bowl for soup. 

“Hi, James,” she said. And took her soup and vanished.

“Jaime, hello,” his mother said. “Could you hand me that knife?”

Bucky reached with his right hand -- the left hung loose and useless against his side and that was important, somehow, but he couldn’t remember why -- and plucked a knife out of nothingness.

“What are we doing?”

“Waiting.”

Bucky looked around again. There was still nothing. Sand and sea and sky. And the scent of root vegetable soup. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to be ready to go,” she said, smiling softly. “Are you ready to go? We can wait a little longer, if you want.” She poured another ladle of soup for someone else, who vanished before Bucky could even look at them.

“What are they doing?”

“They’re waiting,” she said. “For their friends, or lovers. Husband and daughters. Are you waiting for someone?”

_Tony._

“And what happens when they get here?”

“You can go on the ship,” she said, pointing with her ladle out to sea. “And go on to the other shore.”

“What’s over there?”

“I don’t know, dear. I’m waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For you. To be ready to go. But I can keep waiting, if you want. You can still go back.”

Bucky swallowed. “I-- am I dead?”

“Not quite yet, dear. Would you like some soup?”

_Hang in there, sweetheart, just-- Bucky..._

Bucky turned, thinking he heard a familiar voice on the wind. The gulls that he couldn’t see… were calling to him in Tony’s voice.

“I don’t think so,” Bucky said. He wanted Tony. He wanted to hear what Tony had to say. Wanted to see that beloved face again.

“Are you sure you don’t want some soup?”

“No, I’m-- I’m not hungry.” He looked around again, trying to find Tony. His arm ached, and then it hurt. Burned. Blood dripped into the white sands, but his mother didn’t seem to notice. Or care. 

“You’d better go, then,” Ma said. She pointed with her ladle. “The doorway’s getting smaller.”

Tony was on the other side of that door. On the other side of the light and the sea and the sand. Of his mother and her bowls of soup. Of a ship and the shore.

He took a few steps toward a door that wasn’t really there, reaching with his hand, trying to ignore the agony in his bones, the way his arm-- wasn’t and was.

_Tony._

* * *

Tony sat in the uncomfortable chair beside the neat hospital bed, reading aloud from the day’s newspaper, because the doctor had told him that unconscious patients often responded to the voices of people they knew and cared about.

Every few paragraphs, he’d pause to look at Bucky closely, examining the pale skin and too-still expression for any hint of life.

“Hang in there, sweetheart,” he said, patting Bucky’s remaining hand gently. “Just hang in there. You’ll come home soon, Bucky, I promise. You’ll get better.”

The doctor had removed Bucky’s arm, cut out the infection that had already been growing in it, and promised that the worst of the danger was past. He came back every few hours to change the bandages, to drip a few more drops of laudanum into Bucky’s mouth. But mostly, it was just Tony.

Rhodey had come for a bit, but he hadn’t said much. Met Tony’s eyes soberly and gripped his shoulder in understanding. He’d promised to take word back to the townhouse, to Jarvis and the troupe.

Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Rogers had come, and Tony had left his post to allow them time alone with their friend. Maybe if Bucky couldn’t hear Tony’s voice, he’d hear theirs. He’d scarfed down a meal -- he didn’t even remember what it was, now -- and washed his face, and gone out long enough to pick up the paper.

Ms. Potts would come around soon, Tony guessed. As soon as she heard the news -- not so much the duel as the debt. Tony wasn’t looking forward to that conversation. He wasn’t sure he _could_ have that conversation while he was still waiting for Bucky to awaken.

When Ms. Romanoff and Mr. Rogers left, they were holding onto one another in despair, and Rogers’ eyes were rimmed in red. Tony had just nodded and seen them back out to the street, and then returned to Bucky’s side.

Bucky had to wake up soon. Tony was running out of paper to read.

Bucky mumbled something, incoherent and low, tossing his head from side to side.

Tony froze, then leaned closer. “Bucky? Sweetheart?”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky said, not opening his eyes. “Not yet--”

“It’s all right, you just rest,” Tony said quickly. “Take all the time you need.”

“Tony-- I-- have you been waiting?” Bucky opened his eyes, but it was as if he wasn’t seeing anything, turning blindly like a man in the dark.

“For a little while,” Tony said. “How do you feel, darling? Shall I call the doctor?”

“She was waiting--” Bucky said. “She was waiting for me. I-- I didn’t want to go.”

She? Maybe it had been Ms. Romanoff’s voice that rang through to Bucky. “You don’t have to go anywhere,” Tony said. “Not even... wherever she wanted you to go.”

Bucky groaned, a soft, agonized sound, and he moved his right hand, the fingers twitching-- “Tony?”

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” Tony promised. He closed his hand over Bucky’s, squeezing gently. “I’m right here.”

“I want to stay,” Bucky said. He seemed to make an incredible effort to keep hold of Tony’s hand. “With you.”

“As long as you like,” Tony reassured him. Though that might have been not entirely the truth.

It wouldn’t take long, once Killian had taken those shares in SI, for him to utterly crush Tony, if that was the revenge Killian had in mind. Tony would be forced to give up... well, nearly everything. He certainly wouldn’t have enough income to host an entire troupe, or pay a companion’s stipend.

He shook his head. Before he could despair of losing Bucky’s heart, he had to ensure Bucky wasn’t going to lose his life. “I’m right here, with you.”

“Good,” Bucky said. Finally, he seemed to see Tony, and he didn’t exactly smile, but the expression was soft and somehow pleased. “Stay.” His grip on Tony’s hand loosened and he went slowly limp. His chest continued to rise and fall regularly. His eyes slipped shut, and he fell asleep again, lost to the pull of the laundnum and the need to heal.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills:  
> 27dragons' Bucky Barnes Bingo square U2 - Terrible Choices  
> tisfan's StarkBucks Bingo square SBB B2 - Let Me Help You

It couldn’t have been a coincidence that Lord Killian called on Tony the night after Bucky made his first, slow and agonizing walk around the park, sleeve neatly pinned up, leaning heavily on Tony’s arm the whole time.

His window didn’t look out over the drive, but Natasha’s did. That probably wasn’t an accident. Natasha liked to know what was going on at all times, and she didn’t hesitate to inform Bucky of who was at the doorstep. Perhaps even before Jarvis told Tony.

“We should go and listen,” she told him. “Killian didn’t turn up to cancel Stark’s debt or forgive the duel.”

Bucky looked up from where he was following Doctor Strange’s uncomfortable therapy. A few minutes with his stump in a bucket of clean, cold water, and then a few minutes with hot water, with a medicinal packet dumped in. The doctor swore that keeping what remained of his upper arm in good condition would allow him to gain flexibility, and prevent infection.

Which didn’t make it any more goddamn comfortable.

“If I was an actual hero in an opera-story,” Bucky said, “getting angry would give me the strength to get up and beat that man to a pulp. It doesn’t.”

“That would only get you thrown into prison,” Nat pointed out with brutally cold logic. “He outranks you too much. You need to use your head. And you can’t do that if you don’t know what’s going on. Come on -- Stark’s certain to receive him in the formal parlor; there’s a servant’s stair that goes right up the other side of that wall. We should be able to hear everything.”

“Tony will keep him waiting as long as he can get away with,” Bucky predicted. “Let me finish this therapy. Ending on cold is terrible.” It would make his shoulder ache all night, even with the laudanum. He was already concerned that he was going come out the other side of this -- if he ever did -- with a morphinism condition.

Nat acceded to that, but she hovered, watching while he did the hot-water soak, holding the towel ready for him when he’d finished. “Killian will only be put off for so long,” she pointed out.

“I know.” Bucky patted the stump gingerly. The whole thing was a mess of scars and healing scabs and not a few self-inflicted wounds from digging at the painful itch. “It’s not like I don’t care.”

Except that Bucky wasn’t sure he did care. He cared about Tony, certainly. And he was pretty sure, no matter what Tony thought, that Killian had been responsible for the second bullet. But he was already exhausted, just carrying the burden of _living_. The dream he’d had, that first night, shimmered in his memory like a regret before he pushed it away and reached for his shirt. Even if he didn’t care right now, he owed it to his future self. And to Tony. To figure out a way out of this mess.

Natasha led him into a bathing room, of all things, and through a narrow door behind the standing shelf of towels and brushes and soaps, a door Bucky had never noticed. Of course, he’d done most of his bathing in Tony’s chambers.

The hall was barely wide enough for the two of them, and poorly-lit, besides, but Natasha seemed to know exactly where she was going. Because of course she did. When they came to an intersection, she turned without a hesitation, leading Bucky up an equally-narrow stairway. It was, at least, well-constructed. Not a single creak or groan from the wood.

About halfway up, she stopped, tracing her fingers along the wall as if feeling for something. Another few steps up, and then she stopped again, dropping down to sit on the stair, pulling Bucky with her. She pointed, and when Bucky followed her finger, he could see a stout rope fed through the wall, wrapping around a pulley, and feeding back down into the wall. The servants’ bellpull.

And the hole the rope came through was wide enough to let a little of the conversation through, unmuted by the wall.

“--would ask after the health of your family, Lord Stark,” Killian said, his voice dripping insincerity, “but as I know you don’t have any, let’s just skip the pleasantries.”

“By all means,” Tony said. “I suppose I must be grateful to you for not wasting my time. What is it that you want?”

“In light of-- the terrible tragedy that occurred prior to our duel--” Killian said, coming into sight. He hadn’t bothered to sit, and Jarvis had not relieved him of his coat, nor hat, since he was fiddling with the brim. “I came with the intent to lighten your burdens.”

Tony wasn’t visible from this angle, but Bucky could practically _feel_ the disbelief radiating off him. “Well, that’s quite the gesture,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Do go on.”

“I come prepared to return to you the entire shares lost in that last hand,” Killian said. “I was angry, and much in my cups. As were we all. It was ill done, and the consequences quite beyond any that I could have foreseen.” 

“Quite,” Tony murmured. “And in exchange for such generosity, you want...?”

“You know what I want,” Killian said. “Barnes. Allow him to visit, guest with me for a few days. What happened-- I must make amends to him.”

“Is that what they’re calling it, these days?” Tony sounded flip, relaxed, even somewhat bored, though there was a tension under his voice that Bucky could feel.

Beside him, Natasha had gone still, nearly rigid, in fury.

“Do be serious, Stark,” Killian said. “Allow me to paint for you a prediction. You deny me the right to make my apologies for Barnes’ malfortune, I take your company, and drive you to ruin, and you _lose him anyway_. He’s a pretty enough prize, I’ll grant you, even if he’s down to playing at tripod to entertain. But is he worth all that, when you must realize as soon as he takes his leave of this place, my door will always be open. Why not gain the best of both worlds. Take the apology for what it is, give me a week, and be able to keep the troupe or not at your own decision?”

Tony was silent for so long that Bucky wondered if he’d entirely lost the ability to speak, But when he did respond, it was in a calm, if somewhat chilly, tone. “As I believe I stated at the start of that game, Mr. Barnes is a man, not a trinket or a horse. I cannot simply _give_ him to you. The decision must be his own, and he is still recovering from his wounds. Give me a few days, for him to regain a little more strength, and I’ll put the question to him.”

“I have your word?” Killian asked, and that seemed rather brave, considering Bucky wouldn’t have wanted to cross Tony when he was putting off that tone.

“You have my word that I will tell him of your offer,” Tony said precisely. “What he will decide is his own business.”

“You’re a fool, Stark, if you don’t encourage him to see that this is the best path,” Killian said. He put his hat back on his head and showed himself out of the fancy guest parlor. Bucky had seen the inside of the room exactly once, not being the sort of place that Tony preferred, with its stiff-backed chairs and heavy hand on the ornate decoration.

It wasn’t until Killian was well out of the room -- and perhaps even out of the house -- that Tony murmured, “I’m a fool anyway.”

It didn’t seem to matter how much Bucky peered through the rope’s housing; he couldn’t see Tony from that position. 

Finally, he let Nat’s gentle touch on his arm lead him away.

“This is a tempest in a teapot,” Bucky said, “and it’s spilling all over the room. Nat, I have to _do_ something.”

“I don’t disagree,” she said, “but what can we do?”

“What Killian wants,” Bucky said. “He’s a fancy lord, I’ve done it dozens of times without love or even companionship. It’s nothing. Trivial. Tony doesn’t need to suffer like this.”

“It would cut Stark’s heart out entirely,” Natasha said, frowning. “You can’t possibly be thinking of giving in.”

“Killian’s like a spoiled boy coveting a toy,” Bucky said. “He doesn’t want me for anything more than the prestige of being able to say he’s done so. Thousands of English women do it the same, each night. Close their eyes and pretend to be somewhere else.” Tony had showed him what love could be like, and Bucky could pretend. He could be somewhere else, someone else entirely. It wouldn’t hurt anything, and then they would be out-- out from under this. 

It was no worse than putting on an opera while taking the patron’s personal “suggestions” into account. They’d once done a performance where Juliet lived and married Paris as the dutiful child. This would be… easier than that had been.

Or so Bucky told himself. 

“And what of your Tony?” Natasha insisted. “Do you think he wouldn’t care? Even if he wouldn’t -- could you return to his side, after Killian, and know that he _knew_? There must be a better way.”

“Do you think he wouldn’t forgive me?” Bucky asked, his voice very small. He knew that Tony would hate it, would feel as jealous and angry as Bucky might, if Bucky was suddenly confronted with Tony’s impending marriage. Which, of course, some day, he might. “It is a few nights and it is over. We can be together after, for so long as he wants.”

Natasha sighed. “I think he would forgive you anything,” she admitted.

* * *

Tony would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about just clamming up and letting the whole conversation slide. How could he tell Bucky about Killian’s despicable offer? Bucky shouldn’t even have to _imagine_ that Tony might want Bucky to do such a thing for him.

And yet, he had given Killian his word that he would tell Bucky of the offer. Even if Killian was a cheat and a cad, Tony was -- or tried to be -- a man of his word.

He dithered for a while, staring at letters and business proposals with unseeing eyes. Putting it off.

But finally, he made himself put everything aside and make his way to Bucky’s room for his usual evening visit. He hesitated again at the door, but then straightened his shoulders and tapped softly. “Bucky? Are you awake?”

Rather than answering the door himself, Bucky called out for Tony to come in. He was, Tony knew, still having balancing issues caused from the change to his center of gravity. Getting out of a chair once he settled in was harder than normal. Despite that, Bucky had been straining to keep up with the forms, so he was probably weary.

Tony eased the door open and looked around, finding Bucky in the chair by the fire. “Hey, I wasn’t sure you’d still be up,” Tony said. He bent to kiss Bucky’s cheek lightly. “How are you feeling tonight?”

“I’ve used less of the laudanum today,” Bucky said. “Tired of my head feeling like it’s stuffed with straw, and stupid straw at that. But it does make it harder to sleep. Come, sit down. How was your day? The manor house is keeping you busy?”

“Busy enough,” Tony allowed, sinking into the opposite chair. He let himself sink into the comfort of the mundane for a short while, telling Bucky about an amusing mistake in the household order that had resulted in a truly absurd number of new napkins to be delivered when the housekeeper had meant to order only one new set. A minor problem with a repair to the carriage Tony was making. An anecdote he’d heard in town. The sort of thing they’d chatted about for weeks.

“And you won’t believe it, but Lord Killian dropped in just after dinner,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. Casual.

“That sounds bad for your digestion,” Bucky said, and he seemed a little strained, the fingers on his right hand clenching down on the arm of the chair until his knuckles went white. 

“Are you unwell?” Tony asked. Christ, had he been ignoring signs of pain the whole time he’d been talking? “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I’m well,” Bucky said, hastily. “I like listening to you talk. I just-- wasn’t expecting him to come into the conversation. Strange how it makes my hand want to form a fist, and then the nerves are aware, all over again, that my arm isn’t there anymore. It’s the strangest thing, I don’t know how to explain it. Something, I-- it’s almost like I can _feel_ my arm, still there, just the same as always.”

“That sounds dreadful,” Tony admitted. “Though it’s not strange at all that you should like to make a fist when he comes up. I’d rather like to make a fist at him, myself.” He tried on a weak smile, but it dropped away quickly. “You would not believe-- Well, perhaps I should turn the topic, if hearing of him upsets you so.” He wasn’t backing out. He would tell Bucky about it -- but it could wait until the morning, surely, after Bucky’d had some rest and wasn’t feeling so tired.

Bucky shook his head, letting his body relax, his expression slowly returning to interested, but not upset. “No, you may as well tell me now,” Bucky said. “Whatever he said, it’s sure to be infuriating. Might as well get it out of the way. Come, tell me what horrible things he wants your company to make for him, what weapons, what-- well, you know the sort of man he is.”

“Worse than that,” Tony admitted. “He rather suggested that he would forgive my debt to purchase _you_.” Tony grimaced in disgust. “A _visit_ , he called it. Like putting diamonds on a pig.”

“The _whole_ debt?” Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That seems absurdly generous. Forgive me for saying, my companionship isn't worth that much.” 

“Perhaps not,” Tony said, glaring at some trinket on the shelf across the room, “but your comfort and... and _personhood_ are worth far, far more. If I thought you'd wanted anything to do with the man, you likely would never have wound up here in the first place.” An exquisitely painful thought, that -- that he might have entirely missed the joy of having Bucky in his life.

“I don’t,” Bucky said, blunt and obvious. “But my attempt to avoid it has cost-- you, me… What will Killian cost us tomorrow?”

“You’re not seriously thinking of giving in to his bullying, are you?” Tony stared at him, startled. “Give in once, and he’ll never let you alone.”

Bucky waved his one hand around, expressively. “ _This_ is letting us alone?”

Tony nearly cringed. Bucky had been harmed far worse than Tony, by Killian’s actions. How could he think to lecture Bucky on the righteousness of their stand? He closed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands against them until he saw stars. “It’s your decision,” he said miserably. “No one else has the right to make it for you. But please, _please_... Don’t do it just to save me. I’m not worth that.”

“You might be the only person in the world who thinks that,” Bucky said, slow, as if he was marveling at it. A perfect gemstone that he was turning over in his hand. “The only person who’s _ever_ held me in such esteem. Even the troupe would say that there are some necessary evils. Some men that you submit to, because the cost of resisting is too great. In fact, they like it more if you do resist. It makes defeating you all the more satisfying. Giving them what they want with… no passion. No hatred, no resentment.”

“There’s a level of acting skill I would never be able to achieve,” Tony said bitterly. “I will loathe him forever for even _suggesting_ it. I can’t... I can’t fault him for wanting you. Or even trying to arrange it -- the world is what it is. But even the lowest servant is still a person, not a possession.”

“Worth somewhat less than a good racing horse,” Bucky said. “Probably even less than that now, being defective. Tony-- I am a person, and I know my own value. But what Killian wants from me, that doesn’t change who I am, or how I feel. Or who I love.”

Tony looked at Bucky, helpless to look anywhere else, even if the beauty of Bucky’s face was somewhat blurred by tears of helpless rage. That couldn’t possibly have meant what it sounded like, could it? It was Tony’s fault Bucky had been so badly hurt, he couldn’t possibly feel so strongly. “Bucky,” he breathed. “You...” He shook his head, hurting and bewildered.

“Tony,” Bucky said, and he beckoned, just a little, as if he was summoning Tony to come even closer. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s well, Tony. Everything will be all right. Come, darling, come sit closer.” Bucky fumbled around at his dressing robe’s pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. 

Tony meant to pull his chair closer, to reach out and take Bucky’s hand, but as he tipped out of his seat, he just kept going, ending on his knees in front of Bucky, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist and pressing his head against Bucky’s chest, seeking the steady rhythm of Bucky’s heart beating. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “Sweetheart, I’m so, so sorry.”

Bucky stroked through Tony’s hair, soothing. “If my forgiveness is what you need, you must know you have it,” he said. “I’ll have Steve write up some horrible opera about a terrible lord, and it will be performed throughout the country. By this time next year, Killian will wish he’d never even heard of opera.”

A ragged laugh forced its way out of Tony’s throat. “I’d like to see that,” he admitted. He let himself cling for another long minute, soaking in the feel of Bucky’s gentle touch, the warmth between them, and then pushed back. “Forgive me yet again,” he sighed. “You are the injured party; I shouldn’t be forcing you to comfort _me_.”

Bucky scowled at him, so wide and so farcical, it was obviously a stage expression. “Tony,” he said, “you’ve done nothing involving _forcing_ me to anything. If I comfort you, it is because you are in need, and I wish to do so. I also promise that I will do nothing that I do not wish to do. Not ‘just to save you’ as you would put it. If you cannot accept that perhaps, I hold you in more esteem than you hold yourself. Darling, I--” Bucky trailed off then, still holding Tony’s wrist as if he meant not to let go. “I wish you could see yourself for the good man that you are.”

Tony managed a smile, feeling Bucky’s sweet words twisting in his gut. “You may have to see it for me, for now,” he said. “But I trust your promise, and I thank you for it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Morphinism condition” is a victorian phrase that means, essentially, a medical addiction to morphine.  
> [See here](http://www.victorianweb.org/science/addiction/terms.htm#:~:text=There%20was%20%22alcoholic%20inebriety%22%20and,not%20used%20specifically%20and%20consistently%2C) for more information about historical terminology on drug and alcohol addiction.


	11. Chapter 11

Bucky might have thought that losing his arm wouldn’t necessarily fracture his breath control, but it did. He could talk, and he could sing a bit, but he could barely hold more than a few notes before he was gasping for air, especially when he was trying to project. Just working with his understudy was _exhausting_.

But he didn’t have a choice; there was only the dim possibility that someday, in the future, he could play a new role: a comedy sidekick, or maybe the old and infirm uncle. But that wasn’t today. And his understudy needed the work.

They’d been approached, cautiously, by one of the more wealthy merchant families and asked for a performance for a beloved daughter’s birthday celebration.

Even if Bucky couldn’t sing, they weren’t going to miss it. Two operas over the course of a week-long party, and the pay was more than sufficient.

Everyone knew -- the troupe always knew -- that their safe spot at Lord Stark’s manor was in jeopardy. Everyone knew, and didn’t want to say. But Steve took the offer so quickly as to be comical, and so Bucky was stuck, working with Sam to get him up to speed.

“Stop pickin’ and pokin’,” Sam complained. “I’m singing it right. Just ‘cause I’m not singing it the way _you_ sing it don’t mean it’s wrong.”

“Note perfect,” Bucky admitted. “But you lack-- expressiveness. You could be singing to the wall, or a rock, not the woman you love. Not the person you’d die for.”

“No one in that audience is paying a lick of attention to me,” Sam said. “They all got their eyes on Nat.”

“ _Make_ them,” Bucky said, clenching his right fist until his shoulder ached. “You’re the hero, your love is the strongest force in the world. You have to make them love you, or they’re not going to care that you die. And if they don’t _care--_ well, that’s a real tragedy.” 

“Be helpful if I was singing to something other than the lamp,” Sam muttered, but he shook out his arms and took up the opening pose again.

His arm -- the one that didn’t exist anymore -- was itching again. He hated that; it was the precursor to pain where there shouldn’t be any pain, and it was making him addicted to the fucking laudanum. He was spending more than half his time in an opium haze. 

He shook it off and concentrated on Sam. Sam, who needed to learn to project, to feel the emotions he was trying to convey, if it was to the wall, or to Natasha, or to his worst enemy. It wasn’t easy, Bucky knew. It took training, concentration, and a love of the music. And, he’d been told, very expressive eyes, and long eyelashes. Maybe Sam just needed to work on his stage makeup. His voice was excellent, really. Smooth as syrup.

“Better,” Bucky said, when Sam finished again. He wasn’t sure if it was, just that he needed to go, to take his medicine, to rest.

He needed Tony, honestly, who had been so filled with guilt that he certainly hadn’t come to Bucky for-- entertainment. Companionship, yes. He’d been willing to read to Bucky, to talk with him, to rub ointment into the muscles around his missing arm. But if Bucky leaned in for a kiss, it was met with calm, lack of interest.

Bucky wasn’t sure if that was out of some mistaken idea that Bucky was no longer interested, or if Tony was no longer interested in him, maimed as he was, and didn’t want to admit it.

Which seemed ridiculous. If that were the case, surely he’d have encouraged the visit with Lord Killian.

“Get Natasha,” Bucky said. “Try it again as the duet for practice, and we’ll do a full dress rehearsal tomorrow.”

“You’re a harder taskmaster than even Rogers,” Sam groaned, but he trudged toward the door, presumably in search of Natasha.

Bucky waited for a few moments, enough so no one would see him as he struggled out of his chair and to his feet. Strange how his balance was still so bad. Or how much he’d depended on having two arms for nearly everything. 

He wasn’t really hungry, but maybe he’d try to have a little dinner before he took a dose of laudanum. Give himself a little buffer before the fog descended. He was thinking so hard about getting through the next few minutes that he all but ran into Tony.

“Bucky! Hey, honey, how’s practice going?” He looked honestly interested. Not like someone who was, for instance, just tolerating Bucky out of a misplaced sense of guilt. “Dinner break?”

“Sam needs to fall in love,” Bucky said. “It will help his singing enormously if he can at least _imagine_ loving someone more than himself.”

“I imagine that would help,” Tony agreed. “Do you have a candidate in mind?”

“Perhaps something will come to me,” Bucky said. “And yes, dinner, if you’d be so kind? A rest and-- good company. I’m quite weary for some reason.” He didn’t realize he was shaking until Tony reached out to touch him, and he all but gratefully collapsed into Tony’s arms.

“Whoa, hey! Yeah, you wore yourself right out, didn’t you?” Tony maneuvered them around so his arm was around Tony’s shoulders, Tony’s arm around his waist. “Come on, let’s get you somewhere comfortable and ring for supper.” Tony half-carried him down the hall and into a sitting room -- not one they used often, but it was conveniently close by.

He carefully lowered Bucky onto a sofa and then found the bellpull on the wall and tugged on it a couple of times before coming back to sit at Bucky’s side. “Someone will be along soon,” he promised. “What do you need, other than a meal? A blanket, your medicine, a pillow for your back?”

“Just you,” Bucky said, so weary that he was utterly, completely raw and honest. “It’s all I need. I was thinking, with Sam-- how strange that I was able to pretend on stage, to feel, what I never before knew.”

“Maybe you’ve just got a better imagination than Sam,” Tony said, sidestepping the question of Bucky’s feelings. He took Bucky’s hand between both of his, stroking lightly, soothingly. “You’ve been working so hard, it’s no wonder you’re exhausted.”

“Sam has it, nearly down,” Bucky said. “Well enough for these two performances. The troupe will be as ready as they can be, for the southern tour.”

Tony twitched a little. “I... Will you be going with them?”

It wasn’t entirely true that the troupe would be better off without him; they managed to keep Steve with them, and he was sometimes slower than Bucky could be. He could go-- in fact, he thought perhaps he _should_ go. “It’s yet to be decided,” Bucky said, as if it were a decision entirely out of his hands-- well, hand, at any rate. “If the doctor thinks I’m well enough for travel, that I won’t inconvenience the troupe. It-- may be best if I spend time recovering. If it’s not inconvenient for you, of course.”

“You could never be an inconvenience,” Tony said earnestly. “Truly, I--”

The door opened and a maid peered in. “Your lordship?”

“Could you please inform Cook that we’d like a tray for dinner in here?” Tony said. “Something hearty for Mr. Barnes. He’s still recovering his strength.”

“Of course, your lordship.” The maid bounced a little curtsey and disappeared.

Bucky let himself sink into the chair, comfortable as it was. Truly, he wanted to stay with Tony; it seemed as if trying to leave the man would be to pluck his own heart out and toss it aside. But only-- _only if you want me to stay_. He thought he might have said as much, or maybe he just thought he did.

Because time seemed to skip and jump the way it did, sometimes, when he was late for his laudanum, and the next thing he was completely aware of was Tony pressing a cup of broth into his hand and helping him to drink it. Of Tony spreading jam on toast for him, and coaxing him into eating his pudding like he was a child. And the way Tony smiled at him, a reward for finishing the tray, it was like the sun coming up after a very long, rainy night.

“Come on,” Tony said, slipping an arm around Bucky’s back. “Let’s get you to bed before you fall asleep right here. It’s a fairly comfortable sofa, but I doubt it’s good for a night’s rest.”

“Stay?” Bucky asked, leaning heavily against Tony, as if he were drunk and needed to be held up so he didn’t sleep in the gutter.

Tony hesitated. “I shouldn’t. You need to rest, darling.”

“I need-- you,” Bucky said, insisting in his tired, toddler way. “I need you to stay.” _Please, don’t let me wake up in the darkness alone. Not again. Stay, keep me safe._ It was like a play that hadn’t yet been written. A tragedy in three acts, that would end with disgrace, death, dishonor. But first, they could have this--

These few precious moments.

“If, if that’s what you need,” Tony agreed. “All right. Here, sit here, let me help you with your coat.”

He would stay. Bucky drifted, a little, in and out of awareness. In and out of his own head. Let Tony take care of him, and when they lay down together, skin against skin, Bucky wasn’t entirely certain it wasn’t a dream. But he stayed.

* * *

The troupe was barely into the second act of the first performance, and Bucky was already exhausted. Although, honestly, he was tired of being stared at more than anything. He didn’t quite mind the questions of children, but the young eligibles who wanted to hear about his heroics, interfering with a duel-- well, that was a story he didn’t want to tell, over and over.

The gardens were nice. Dark, and away from the house. 

It was the first time in weeks he’d been away from Tony, and he wasn’t entirely sure that wasn’t part of his exhaustion, too. He’d come to depend on the man for so much. Not just health, but happiness. He ached for Tony when Tony wasn’t by his side.

There was a bench under one of the trees, shrouded by blooming wisteria. It would be as nice a place to sit as any. And it was unlikely that someone would bother him here.

Naturally, having thought that, someone was determined to bother him. A slender lady’s figure, moving hesitantly down the garden path, pausing now and then to peer into the various nooks. “Mr. Barnes?” It was barely a whisper. “I saw you come this way. Please, I must speak with you.”

Bucky thought about getting to his feet; she was obviously higher ranking than he, and a lady besides. And then decided not to. He was _tired_. Tired of being what everyone expected, tired of knowing his place. “If your reputation can withstand it, feel free to have a seat,” Bucky said, not bothering to keep his tone polite or his voice down. 

Her head turned when he spoke, and she altered her course to push through the fall of wisteria. “Ah, there you are.” She didn’t seem offended that Bucky hadn’t stood for her, at least. She made her way over to the bench, brushed a few fallen petals off the end, and sat. “Mr. Barnes, I wanted to apologize for my part in what happened. I never thought it would end in a duel.”

Bucky squinted at her. “Lady Hanson?” He thought that was her name; a friend of Tony’s. The lady’s home he’d gone to-- the night of the game. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“No, I suppose we haven’t,” she said. “I’ve heard so much of you, I suppose I forgot. Maya Hanson, yes.” She paused then, watching her hands twisting in her lap. “I’ve known Lord Stark for many years. Almost as long as I’ve known Lord Killian.”

“You’ve a wide, then, and varied acquaintance,” Bucky said. “I suppose it’s difficult, maintaining a friendship with both of them, determined as they are to best each other in all matters.”

“Yes, well. For many years, I refused to take sides. Permitted them my company only as a neutral bystander. But then, some few years ago...” She trailed off, staring at some point far beyond the hanging flowers, anguish plain in her eyes despite the minimal light. “Lord Killian discovered certain matters that I’d thought long since buried, and...” Her lips pressed together.

“You don’t need to fear my censure,” Bucky said, flicking one of the flowers off the bench absently. “Anything you tell me-- well, who would believe it?”

“For myself, I shouldn’t care,” Lady Hanson said. “But if things went poorly, it would be devastating for my son.” She sighed. “Lord Killian promised to hand over the evidence if I but followed a few simple instructions. Added a few drops of a potion to Lord Stark’s punch. Directed him to the gaming room.” She took a breath, and added, “Replace one of my own decks with one of Killian’s.”

“You helped him cheat Tony,” Bucky said, flatly. “While Tony was drunk--”

Bucky thought perhaps it was good he’d lost his arm, because if he’d had both of them, he might have found himself on the ground, with his hands around her slender throat until she stopped struggling. 

“You helped him-- _why_? What-- your son. He’s a bastard?”

“His father died before we could be wed. Before I even knew I was with child,” she whispered. “We did plan to marry, but--” Grief choked her for a moment, though Bucky found it hard to feel much sympathy. “It was never meant to end in bloodshed, no true harm. He swore he only meant to embarrass Lord Stark a little, to prick his pride for all those times he gloated over his winning.” Her hands wrung together. “And now he refuses to hold up his end of the bargain, because things didn’t go the way he’d planned.”

“Well, no true harm to anyone important,” Bucky said. “That Killian-- wanted me for his collection of prizes, something to take from Tony, just to hurt him, well, that wasn’t true harm, was it?”

It was surprising how angry he was. He’d always known his place, that Killian would want him, or even have him, was distasteful, or annoying. Unpleasant. It would probably not be remotely enjoyable. But it would have been over and easy and nothing more than a memory to be forgotten. 

Except Tony had taught him to value himself more, had valued Bucky more… he wasn’t property, he was a _person_.

Lady Hansen had the grace, at least, to look embarrassed. “I won’t try to ask for forgiveness,” she said. “But I can... I can tell you where Aldrich keeps his cards.”

“Out of-- the goodness of your heart,” Bucky suggested. “Because you feel sorry that true harm--” He stopped, because it looked like she might faint. “What do you want, Lady Hanson?” 

“I want many things,” she said in a voice that trembled. “The security of my son’s future and inheritance, and to make amends, if I can, for the wrong I’ve done you, and, at the last, to see Lord Killian put down for his disgraceful actions.”

“Revenge is at least a motive I can understand,” Bucky said. “Happens our interests might run in the same direction.” It wasn’t going to be easy -- and he didn’t think Killian would hesitate to shoot Bucky, if he caught Bucky going through his things. “Tell me where I can find these false decks.” And of course, she’d want her blackmail evidence back. No matter how guilty she felt, she wasn’t coming to him out of a sense of altruism. If Killian had returned the evidence he had, Bucky had no doubt she’d have fled to the continent to avoid thinking about it. “You should have gone to Tony in the first place,” he said, because that was also true. “He would have helped you.”

“I’m not entirely certain that’s true,” she said slowly. “Tony has a kind heart, but he’s also been, for most of the time I’ve known him, somewhat self-centered. Not cruel, just... singularly focused. Your company seems to have improved him.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter, it’s all past us, now. Lord Killian has a hidden drawer in his desk, in the study. I don’t know exactly where it is -- he took pains to avoid letting me see -- but I know that’s where it is.”

Bucky gave her one long, last look. “You know if I get caught, we’re all going to fall down from this. Everything will be over. You, your son, Tony. The troupe.”

“Then I strongly advise you not to get caught, Mr. Barnes.” Lady Hanson met his gaze for a moment, a few heartbeats, long enough for him to see the terror and resolve in her expression, and then she stood, brushing down her skirts, and strolled back out into the garden.

Bucky sat there a while longer, mulling over everything he’d heard, everything he’d surmised.

He wasn’t going to be able to do this on his own.

And then he made what he was pretty sure was the first of several very bad decisions that had to be made regardless.

He would not tell Tony this until evidence was in hand.

Which meant he needed to get into Lord Killian’s house. And he needed to distract the man while someone else ransacked the desk.

_Natasha._

Bucky waited until his heart rate and breathing were almost normal, then he pushed up from the bench and went to wait backstage for the show to be over. 

It was probably just Bucky’s ego talking, reassuring him. The applause didn’t seem quite as wild, as tumultuous as it did after one of Bucky’s performances. Sam-- well, maybe it was just that the crowd was smaller. Or Bucky was used to hearing it from the curtain line and not backstage.

Sam was a good singer, he was a powerful performer. 

Bucky was not -- in fact -- the center of anyone’s universe except his own.

He dodged a bundle of flowers carried by an overeager fan and got them pointed in the direction of the correct dressing room. Scowled at another fan who was waiting for Natasha backstage. “She’s going to be occupied tonight,” he said. “You can give her your regards in the morning.”

Threw himself down in her chair, waiting for her to come back from giving her bows, from the mingling with the crowd, still high on performance exhilaration. He would know from her face what she thought of the performance, and he would base his critique of Sam on that, since he had not actually stayed to witness the entire show.

It seemed like hours and was probably only a handful of minutes before he heard her voice in the hall, accepting the accolades that she was, no doubt, due.

“--entirely too kind,” she was saying as she opened the door. “If you’d like to...” She paused, seeing Bucky, reading something in his face, and then turned back to her admirer. “Too kind,” she repeated, her tone shifting somewhat, meant to move them along rather than invite further flattery. “I’ll think of your sweet words as I recover -- an exhausting performance, really, but worth it, in the end, don’t you think? Oh, you’ll have to see the schedule, I don’t have it memorized. I just present myself when the stage master tells me.” She smiled, wide and fake, and closed the door. She paused a moment, listening, before turning to face Bucky.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She nudged him out of her chair and sat down to begin removing her makeup.

“I feel like one,” Bucky said. “Drifting sort of aimless, like the Ghost of Hamlet’s father. I-- how would you like to help me in bringing Killian down? To set the blame all at his feet and destroy him?”

She glanced at him sharply in the mirror. “Do you think we can?

“I think so, if the information I just got was true,” Bucky said. “But it’s an awful risk-- and I, at least, will not get out of it without some consequences.”

It was very likely that he was going to have to give Killian… something. To distract him long enough. Bucky suppressed a shudder, but he rather thought Nat would know what he meant to do.

She stared at him for a moment, then went back to scrubbing the rouge from her cheeks. “I think you’d better tell me everything.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fills:  
> 27dragons - Starkbucks Bingo square G5: “This is probably a bad time, but marry me?”  
> tisfan - Bucky Barnes Bingo square C1: Kink: Seduction Mission

Tony hadn’t been _lurking_ in the front parlor, awaiting the troupe’s return, no matter how high Jarvis raised his eyebrow. He’d been meaning to read this treatise, and there was no sense in taking it back to his study when the lamps in the parlor were perfectly adequate, and the chairs just as comfortable.

Of course, if he happened to be there when the troupe returned -- in high spirits, from the sound of it -- then it was only polite for him to go out and greet them and ask after the performance’s success, wasn’t it?

That’s all it was, convenience and manners. Tony wasn’t panting by the door for his lover like a pampered housepet awaiting its master’s return.

“Good evening, Lord Stark,” Mr. Rogers said to him, nudging Mr. Wilson out of the way from where he was reporting on his successful first performance. “I was asked to let you know, Buck-- er, Mr. Barnes and Miss Romanoff happened across an old friend in the audience, and they’re planning to have a late supper, to renew their acquaintance. They didn’t want you to be concerned.”

That was... that was good, wasn’t it? Bucky hadn’t much felt like socializing since the accident, so if he was feeling well enough to entertain a friend, that was a good sign. And it was good for a man to have a broad range of acquaintances and friends, not to spend all one’s time with a paltry few. It was good. No reason at all for Tony’s lungs to fill with lead, his stomach to drop. Tony pasted on a smile. “Thank you for the courtesy, Mr. Rogers. I hope they have a splendid evening.”

That was the proper thing to say, and Tony said it without much thinking about it, his mind already racing ahead to the moment of Bucky’s return -- which was likely to be some hours, if he and Miss Romanoff were engaged for supper. He kept his smile fixed. “In that case, we must all adjourn to the dining room for our own supper, while you tell me of your triumphant evening.”

It was not entirely difficult to listen -- if only because opera singers and actors were both loud and demanding of attention -- but even so, Tony found his mind wandering, and his gaze constantly drawn to the empty chair at the table. As if by some unspoken agreement, no one sat in Bucky’s usual seat, even if one of the younger sopranos had eagerly claimed Natasha’s place at the upper table.

Halfway through dinner, however, Jarvis stopped by Tony’s seat. Instead of offering him a glass of wine to soothe his master’s nerves, he bent to Tony’s ear. “You have a letter, sir, sent express.”

“At this hour?” Tony’s heart skipped with fear -- news sent so late could not be joyful. He excused himself quickly and all but snatched at the letter. Tony’s name on the envelope was written in a hand that seemed familiar, but not one Tony knew well enough to identify; the seal was a simple design of no particular identity, though the paper under his hands was thick and smooth, high quality. He nearly tore it, fumbling out the message.

_Lord Stark,_

_Pray do overlook my familiarity in calling on you with such a matter, but I wished to inform you of certain fortunate circumstances._

_I happened across Mr. Barnes at one of the clubs I frequent and of course, passed along the invitation which I issued to him last time, through your hands, that he had not had time to respond as yet._

_We thought not to worry you when he returns to you, much later than expected._

_I will be keeping him entertained, have no doubt._

_With regards,_

_Aldrich Killian_

Tony read over it twice, and then a third time, the panic draining out into a cold morass of dread and loathing. Killian had greatly enjoyed writing that, Tony had no doubt, eager to smear the muck of his spite across Tony’s face.

The hateful words, so elegantly couched, did their work all too well. Even now, as Tony stared at the faint smudges on the paper, Killian’s hands might be on Bucky -- and other parts, as well, Killian not much known for the pleasures of anticipation.

Tony nearly gagged at the thought, and was forced to lean against the wall, head bowed as he gasped for breath. No, _no_ , he’d all but begged Bucky not to give in...

But he had also stressed that it was Bucky’s own choice, that Tony would not make that decision for him.

The world tilted around him as he struggled to believe that Bucky had made this choice, to accept it. But he couldn’t, could _not_. What had Killian said, to force Bucky to see this as the least of evils?

_I know my place,_ Bucky whispered in Tony’s memory. 

“If I might be so bold, my lord,” Jarvis said, and Tony almost jumped out of his skin; having completely forgotten that he was not, in fact, alone in the hallway.

“Good Christ, Jarvis,” he gasped. “You’ll be the death of me. What is it?”

“This seems a little-- too much,” Jarvis said, indicating and dismissing Killian’s note with a flick of his fingers. “The man he directed to bring it also made free with the news. He means for you to be hurt by his actions. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, that is not action that Mr. Barnes would authorize, knowing, as he must, of your regard for him.”

“No,” Tony said, “no, I’m certain that Mr. Barnes would not have condoned this approach. But what... Do you believe Killian has stepped beyond the bounds of his privilege and into the sinister?” Was this not, in fact, Bucky’s choice at all?

“Unfortunately, I do not,” Jarvis said. “He would not taunt you, otherwise. If Mr. Barnes is held beyond his will, you would not know it, until it was too late to prevent anything. But, and I know it brings no comfort, I believe he did this-- for you. To protect you from Lord Killian’s scheming. What I am puzzled by -- even alarmed -- is: where is Miss Romanoff?”

That was... that was an excellent question. If Bucky had been accosted by Killian while out with Miss Romanoff, then surely she would have returned to the house by now. “I don’t... know. Perhaps she wished to avoid my reaction.” That rang falsely, though; of everything Tony had learned of Miss Romanoff, she was not the sort of person who shied away from unpleasantness. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed.

It galled him to think of Bucky sacrificing himself for Tony’s comfort -- but if he intervened, forbade the action, then was he not proving himself unworthy of Bucky’s trust and love by denying Bucky’s own agency?

“It does seem rather muddled, does it not?” Jarvis shook his head gravely. “I hesitate to say, but Lord Killian does not seem the sort who is going to honor his word.”

Well, that... was entirely likely. He could practically _hear_ Killian scoffing. _Did you truly believe I’d trade in so much for a mediocre prong with a one-armed whore?_ He would be certain to say it publicly, to maximize Tony’s humiliation as well as Bucky’s.

And if Tony was going to be forced to honor that debt anyway, then why should Bucky suffer for it?

“Jarvis, have my horse saddled at once.”

“I have taken the liberty,” Jarvis said. “And, my lord--” He held out something to Tony, wrapped in cloth. When Tony took it, it proved to be his pistol, and extra shot.

A consummate professional, Jarvis, and the very model of propriety, even in the face of Tony’s forays into rakishness. For him to come so close to expressing an unfavorable opinion of one of Tony’s peers was well-nigh unthinkable. “You really have become quite fond of Mr. Barnes, haven’t you?” Tony checked the pistol’s chamber and tucked it into his belt.

Jarvis gave Tony one of his best no-nonsense looks. “Mr. Barnes has been everything delightful, and there was never any doubt as to his honor. To suggest I-- I have been in error-- no, sir.”

Tony grinned and clapped Jarvis on the shoulder, earning himself another raised eyebrow, and strode for the door. “We’ll be back soon,” he promised.

It was easy to feel brave, confident, in front of the old butler, who, regardless, thought the world of Tony.

It wasn’t even that bad, galloping through the streets like a crazy man, too fast for anyone to make a positive identification, to gossip about it on the morrow.

But as he approached Killian’s townhome, behind its little neat fence, the front of the building aglow with light, doubt started to seep in.

Not that Tony thought Bucky actually wanted to sleep with Killian; he’d been more than clear about that.

But what made Tony think Bucky actually wanted _him_ for more than the season? For all he knew, Bucky was eagerly looking forward to the troupe’s departure. Maybe this was Bucky’s way of telling Tony that Bucky’s affections were, after all, ephemeral, that Tony shouldn’t risk ruin for a man who would depart without so much as a glance backward in a month’s time.

...No. It was true that Bucky was a consummate actor, that he could have fooled Tony easily. But Tony didn’t think that a Bucky who was only pretending to care for Tony would have jolted awake from nightmares with Tony’s name on his lips, or reached for Tony’s comfort when his arm pained him.

He couldn’t have fooled Mr. Rogers, his dearest friend. Wouldn’t have bothered, even if he could.

Whatever Bucky felt for Tony, it was _real_. Tony had to believe that. And if it wasn’t enough to make Bucky want to stay with Tony when the troupe moved on, well... It would be worth it to Tony, anyway.

He swung himself out of the saddle and looped the reins on a low-hanging branch of a decorative tree. Strode up to the door and pounded on it before he could second-guess himself again.

It seemed to take forever before Killian’s butler opened the door, a sneer already on his face. “My lord is not taking visitors--”

“I”m not visiting,” Tony grated. “I’m here to take Mr. Barnes home. Pray fetch him at once.”

“I am his lordship’s butler,” the man snapped. “I do not _fetch_ anyone. Good day to you.” He attempted to close the door in Tony’s face.

Tony wedged his foot in the door before it could close. “ _Send_ for him, then,” Tony snapped. “Either way, I am not leaving without Mr. Barnes.”

“If you do not leave at once, I shall be forced to summon the authorities and have you removed,” the butler said, all but crushing Tony’s foot in the door.

“That,” an unexpected voice said, coming from around from behind the butler, “sounds like a wonderful idea.” Miss Romanoff, her face smeared with stage-makeup, and wearing what looked like boy’s clothing, held up a deck of cards in one hand. “And perhaps his lordship might want to explain these to those same authorities? Or maybe you should buttle off and _ask him_.”

The butler gaped at her and then hurried down the hall, one hand holding his powdered wig on his head, exclaiming, “My word, Lord Killian, we are invaded!”

Tony took the butler’s departure as an invitation, stepping the rest of the way into Killian’s front hall. “Miss Romanoff,” he said, far more calmly than he felt. “I did not expect to find you here.”

“I could say the same,” she said, “but honestly, I rather did expect you, guns blazing, as the case -- oh, I see you do not disappoint at all, do you?” 

“I have not yet had cause to draw and fire,” Tony pointed out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What _are_ you doing here, and dressed so outlandishly?” Half a dozen possibilities tumbled through his mind, each more improbable than the last.

“Verifying information,” Miss Romanoff said. “Tell me, do you recognize this card deck, Lord Stark?” She fanned a few of the cards open.

He did, as a matter of fact. The art style was quite singular; he recalled noting it at the start of that fateful game. “Yes. That’s... I thought those were Lady Hanson’s cards. What are they-- Do you say Killian was, in fact, cheating?”

“He was,” she said. “And I believe he has cheated at several games-- if you note, here, the foxing is slightly patterned? And there are extra kings and aces in the deck. Along with this--” she held up a small vial. “Opiate extract. You were in no condition to notice the irregularities with the deck.”

Tony took the vial and uncorked it, sniffing at the contents. “Even more villainous than I would have suspected of him. What do you have to say for yourself, Aldrich?” he wondered, raising his voice somewhat as he heard approaching steps.

“I’d say you’ve damned yourself, and the Lady Hanson to sticky ends, Lord Stark,” Killian said, pushing past his butler to show Bucky, arm twisted behind his back, chin tipped awkwardly away from the pistol tucked at the base of his jaw. 

“Bucky--” Tony started to reach out, and stopped as Killian shoved the pistol’s muzzle harder into Bucky’s neck. “Killian, you can’t hope to win this,” Tony tried. “Would you make yourself a murderer as well as a cheat?”

“No one will consider it murder for me to take out this piece of trash,” Killian said, shaking Bucky roughly and making him moan. Bucky’s eyes were wide, terrified, and he seemed too frightened even to talk.

“Lady Hanson, at least,” Miss Romanoff said, “will be unharmed. For what can you say, a murderer and a card cheat, that anyone will believe. Without evidence?”

“Let him go,” Tony said, his heart in his throat. “I’m the one your quarrel is with. Hurting him won’t help your goals.”

“As you say,” Killian said, “I’ve lost-- why not kill him? Break your heart. One last agony that you have to live with, knowing that you might have spared him all this?”

“But then your shot is used up,” Tony pointed out, “and I am _very_ angry. Is it worth your death, do you think, to know that I would live out my days in mourning?”

“Tony--” Bucky said, very calm, almost terrifyingly calm despite the fear in his expression. “Shoot him.”

“Shut up,” Killian snapped, wrenching Bucky’s arm again, using it to push him against the wall. “You were almost perfect, just a few hours, either way, and you would have been perfect. You never deserved him, Stark. Never--” The pistol clicked as Killian drew back the hammer.

“No!” Tony got his hand on his own pistol. “Of course I didn’t deserve him, but he doesn’t deserve to die for it, not after what you’ve already done to him.”

“No? Perhaps you deserve to watch him die--”

Bucky went suddenly limp, eyes rolling back into his head, his weight dropping down as he apparently fainted. Killian’s finger tightened on the trigger and the shot was very loud.

The bullet struck the doorframe, peppering the area with wooden shards and filling the air with smoke.

Bucky rolled over promptly and kicked Killian’s legs out from under him.

Tony moved almost without thought, pressing a knee between Killian’s shoulders and the end of his pistol into the back of Killian’s neck. “Miss Romanoff, please find something we can use to bind him.” His heart was in his throat, pounding madly with fear and anger, but there was an eye to the maelstrom of his thoughts, a calm, crystal clarity. “And then, if you would be so good as to run for the nearest garrison?”

Bucky managed to roll over, get up on his knees, braced on one arm. His face was pale, hair sweaty and stringy in his face. “And a doctor--” he said, turning again to collapse against the doorframe, the stump end of his arm slowly turning red. “I-- think I might have torn something.”

Miss Romanoff made an angry noise. “I will run quickly, but only because James is hurt,” she said. “Otherwise, I would give you time to reconsider the idea of killing this bastard.”

She brought him a length of velvet rope that Tony suspected had been the cord used to tie back some curtains. Didn’t matter; he kept the gun trained on Killian while she tied the man’s arms behind him, stuffed a rag in his mouth, and dashed for the door. Tony backed away after he’d heard her leave, but didn’t take his eyes off Killian at all as he crouched next to Bucky. “How badly are you hurt, sweetheart?”

“Could be worse,” Bucky said, wincing and reaching for the wound. “I forgot to move it out of the way before I _fainted_. Hit it against the floor. I think I split the skin. Are you-- I was a little preoccupied with not getting shot again. Did Nat get it? She found it?”

“Yes,” Tony said. “A pack of cards, marked and tricked. And a vial of opiate. How did you know?”

“Apparently, Lord Killian does not keep his word,” Bucky said. “And so, someone he was blackmailing-- decided to give him up.”

“And so dishonorable conduct is the seed of its own ruin,” Tony mused. “Other than your arm, though -- he didn’t harm you?” He really would shoot Killian if Bucky had been injured at Killian’s hands again. He didn’t think he’d be able to restrain himself.

“I am well,” Bucky said. “He was so busy gloating, he barely got my shirt undone.”

“Well, good.” Tony braced his aim would not waver, and looked at Bucky, taking in the blood on his sleeve and the pallor of his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

“If you’d been much sooner, Natasha would still be looking for the evidence,” Bucky said. “This way, you are vindicated, your shares returned. It is well, Tony. We did… very well.”

“You did,” Tony agreed. “This is... probably a bad time, but will you marry me?” He’d meant to wait at least until the doctor had seen to Bucky’s arm, but he didn’t think he could stand to wait even one minute longer. 

“I would, under normal circumstances,” Bucky said, sounding exhausted, “wonder if you’d taken leave of your senses. You can’t possibly-- _the scandal_ \-- but--” he waved his arm around, “I really don’t think we could possibly make things worse by adding a little marital disgrace into the mix.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Before you change your mind, yes,” Bucky said. “Absolutely, utterly, and completely, yes.”

“Thank God,” Tony sighed. “I do love you.”

“Don’t even make another _sound_ ,” Bucky said to the struggling and babbling Killian. He kicked the man in the shoulder, which probably didn’t actually have much strength behind it, but Killian groaned anyway. “Or I will ask for your head as a wedding gift.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut-averse readers: This chapter contains the smuts. Once things have gotten too warm for your comfort, you may safely skip the rest of the chapter.
> 
> This chapter fills 27dragons' Bucky Barnes Bingo square Y5 - Kink: Riding.

If someone had held a gun to his head and demanded an accurate accounting of the evening’s events, Bucky wouldn’t have been able to deliver. He was also, he might add, quite tired of guns and didn’t really want to be in range of another for quite a long time -- if ever.

But at some point the constable arrived, and then, as word spread through the city, more and more people with a grudge against Killian arrived, eager to see the man brought low. (Bucky was privately convinced that Lady Hanson had dropped a few words in the right ears.) It seemed a great number of lords, ladies, and rich merchants had disputes with him that they dared not voice -- not until one person had already started the ball rolling.

Cowards, Bucky thought. The lot of them.

People had asked him questions, had asked Tony questions. Eventually the doctor arrived and Tony nearly shot one of the constables who was getting in the way of Bucky’s treatment. Or maybe it had just seemed that way.

But now they were home.

_Home_.

Bucky looked up at Tony’s townhouse with its gilt and glitter. “We’re home,” he said, trying the word on for size.

“And not a moment too soon,” Tony agreed. He cocked his head, studying Bucky. “You okay, sweetheart?”

“I-- am struggling to come to grips with the idea that-- this. Could be _my home_.”

“Will be,” Tony corrected. “You said yes.” He paused. “I mean, if you don’t like it, there’s the estate manor, or we could redecorate or--”

“Wherever you are,” Bucky said. He took a breath, trying to think through the pain and weariness. “And a bed, to be preferred.”

“I have some of those,” Tony said agreeably. “Come on, you’re probably ready to fall over again from exhaustion.” He kept his arm around Bucky as they made their way up to the door, which opened even as Tony reached for it.

“Your lordship. Mr. Barnes,” greeted Jarvis. “We’re so very pleased to see you returned to us.”

“Jarvis,” Bucky said, “thank you.” He wasn’t entirely sure what he was grateful for, but-- well, Jarvis did in fact look _pleased_. Which was nice.

It really felt like coming home.

“It’s been a hell of an evening,” Tony reported as he surrendered his hat and jacket to Jarvis. Which Jarvis likely already knew, because Natasha had slipped away long before the constable had finished questioning Bucky. “We’re for bed, Jarvis, and please pass the word that we’re not to be disturbed until at least noon for anything less than the house burning down.”

Jarvis took Tony’s coat. “Of course, sir,” he said. “I’ll send one of the maids up with a tray for breakfast, if you like.”

“That sounds delightful. Thank you, Jarvis, you’re an absolute treasure.” Tony’s arm went back around Bucky almost immediately, and he was leading the way to his room.

Only the slightest moment of hesitation, and then Bucky followed Tony into his lordship’s bedroom. Somewhere that Bucky-- wasn’t supposed to be. That was way beyond his pitiful reach. But he was here, and he was welcome. And he was going to _stay_. 

In truth, it wasn’t that much different. Bed, clothes chest, shelves in the closet. What a happy thought indeed.

“This is a first,” Bucky said, and he would have fallen on the bed, except he’d already fallen too many times this evening, and he wasn’t eager to do it again. 

He hadn’t _precisely_ lied to Tony-- most of the damage to his arm had come from pretending to faint. But Killian hadn’t been gentle with him. He probably had a good sized bruise on one thigh, and another one on his right shoulder where Killian had manhandled him around.

“Being in the lord’s bedchamber,” Bucky clarified. 

“Well, it won’t be the last,” Tony said. He eased Bucky down to sit on the side of the bed. “Here, let me help with your boots.” He caught hold of Bucky’s calf and lifted it, tugging at the leather.

"I would, you know," Bucky said. "Stay. Without any obligation or expectations or marriage or money. I want -- it's important to me that you know that. I only want to be with you."

How could Tony ever believe that, that money wasn’t what this was, that privilege and rank and status -- all the things he would be giving up -- and that Bucky would be gaining. Even if, no matter what happened, Bucky would never really, not truly, belong in the world of lords and nobles, the peerage and the upper class. Tony could never haul him up so far, but Bucky would drag him down.

Bucky needed Tony to understand; that Bucky would understand. If that fall was more than Tony could bear to take.

Tony looked up at him, eyes luminous in the candlelight. “It’s more than I could ever deserve,” he said, reaching to brush his fingers across Bucky’s cheek. “It’s hard to believe -- but I do believe you, astonishingly. But I _will_ marry you, expectation or no. I want you to know that I am yours, as much as you are mine.”

“I know,” Bucky said. “I love you. You will always be mine.”

“Good,” Tony said, smiling. He pulled Bucky’s other boot free, then stood, bracketed by Bucky’s knees, and leaned close to claim a kiss, lingering and sweet. “It’s why I came for you. I would rather be cast down into squalor than see you under Killian’s heel. As long as I have you, I care for nothing else.”

“For someone as impressed with his dick and the places he’s put it,” Bucky said, holding out his finger and thumb to indicate a rather lacking-in-size member, “it’s not that much to be concerned with.”

Tony laughed. “I’m not terribly surprised. Even when we were children, he was prone to exaggerating his own accomplishments.” His fingers brushed lightly through Bucky’s hair. “What do you need, darling? What can I do to help you rest easy tonight?”

“Forgive me,” Bucky said. “For the deception. I couldn’t know if Lady Hanson’s information was good, and I had-- it was necessary to me that you not be cast down so low, if Killian was lying. We had to find out. But it meant I had to lie to you. I would-- I would not have done it, for anything else.”

“Of course you are forgiven.” Tony picked up Bucky’s hand and pressed his lips to Bucky’s fingers. “If I am angry, it is at him, for having done such a despicable thing. At myself, a little, for falling into his trap. But I could not possibly find fault with you in this. You’ve done nothing but try to protect me -- even when the cost to you is high.” He pressed his lips together, remorseful, and then kissed Bucky’s fingers again. “I owe you so very much.”

“If I am owed, then I claim payment,” Bucky said, gazing up at him. “If you are truly in my debt, you must pay what you owe.”

“Gladly,” Tony said, without so much as a breath’s hesitation. “Anything you want. Everything that is within my power is yours for the asking.”

“We can start with the company shares,” Bucky said. “One kiss for each share returned to you-- which puts you at quite a deficit, since you’ve barely kissed me twice since we got back to your home, and that puts you at owing me forty-five.”

“That is quite the deficit,” Tony agreed, mock-serious. He nudged Bucky to lay back amongst the luxurious pillows and crawled onto the bed, poised over Bucky. “But you will find I pay my debts promptly.” He leaned in to kiss Bucky again, gentle and then more warmly, licking into Bucky’s mouth with relish.

It was always this moment where he felt safest, the most secure, when Tony was laying over him, his weight holding Bucky down, his love lifting Bucky up. A perfect, sweet moment. Bucky brought his knees up, encouraging Tony to nestle between his thighs. They hadn’t been together -- not in any carnal way, although intimacy was not always kisses and caresses and sighs -- since the duel, and Bucky couldn’t help an eager, needy groan as they moved together. “You’ll find me a harsh lender, and I’ll make you pay your due with interest.”

“I do have quite a bit of interest for you,” Tony returned, mouth quirking in a sly grin, though it dissolved quickly into concern. “Are you certain, love? You’ve had a trying day, and injured yourself besides.”

“There will always be days that are difficult,” Bucky said. “Would you deny me the sweet, along with the bitter?”

“I would deny you nothing,” Tony promised, and kissed Bucky again, his hand sliding under the material of Bucky’s shirt, strong fingers stroking the soft skin of Bucky’s stomach in lazy swoops, each pass pushing the shirt a little further out of the way.

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Bucky said, his hips moving a little to encourage Tony’s touch, reveling in the feel of warm fingers against his skin. “I, in turn, promise to ask nothing of you that you cannot give, and to be well satisfied with what I get.” He was already trembling, stomach clenching and shivering inside, thighs tight and toes curling, just from a casual touch. A touch with intent behind it, but still. He felt as green as a boy, aching and wanting and not knowing what to do with it.

“Well, then I imagine we will both be well satisfied.” Tony nuzzled at the underside of Bucky’s jaw, followed the line of Bucky’s neck down to the collarbone. “As I cannot think of anything you could ask that I would be unwilling to give, and joyfully.” He raised up long enough to remove Bucky’s shirt altogether, solicitous and careful of Bucky’s injuries, and throw it on the floor. He threw his own after it, heedless of the mess, his gaze fixed on Bucky, hot and wanting. 

Bucky leaned up a little, nuzzling at Tony’s throat, kissing the point of his chin, before he had to fall back again. Annoying, that, but he couldn’t hold his own weight up for long, not at this angle. Someday, perhaps, he would get stronger. In the meanwhile, he would have to settle for bringing Tony down. He raised his hand, touched Tony’s face, his fingertips gliding from forehead to nose to lips, to chin, and then made the same gesture over his own face, from chin to forehead. 

_Here, here is where I want you._

Tony heeded that wordless demand, putting more of his weight on Bucky, kissing the trails his fingertips left behind. One kiss on each eyelid, one on the tip of Bucky’s nose, the plane of his forehead.

“Tease,” Bucky said, keeping his eyes closed and waiting for Tony to take possession of his mouth.

Tony hummed thoughtfully, still scattering those light, delicate kisses over Bucky’s face. “One day, I will earn that title,” he said, voice a low rumble as he nipped at Bucky’s ear. “I will spread you out and kiss every inch of your skin, touch you everywhere, _tease_ until you are panting and desperate for me, until you are begging me for more, utterly mad with desire.” His lips found Bucky’s again, at last, tongue thrusting hot into Bucky’s mouth, and then coaxing Bucky’s tongue into the slick heat of Tony’s mouth in return.

Their mouths moved together, silk and heat and spice. A thousand kisses would never be enough, Bucky decided, his hand moving to Tony’s hair, to pet those curls, to comb through the strands, to hold the back of Tony’s neck and keep him there. He wrinkled his nose a little, pulling back. “I’d be happy to beg now, if you want me to.”

“Is that so? And what would you beg for?” Tony wondered, his hand still tracing those lazy spirals on Bucky’s skin, each loop dropping lower, closer to the waist of Bucky’s trousers.

The shiver that went through him, was as perfect, as quivering, as the string on a violin, signaling the opera to begin. Tony’s mouth found a sensitive spot, working it with his tongue, until Bucky pushed himself up into it, aching for more. Loving the way he was touched, loving the way he needed to touch. “I would beg for you to kiss me slow, to stroke my skin with the care of an artist with a portrait. I would want you to tell me, every time I quake for you, that I am loved. Enough that I might believe it’s real, that I deserve to have it. That you feel for me even half of what I feel for you-- my heart’s so full of you, it might be near to bursting, one last glorious passion. And to know, tomorrow and the next day, and the next, that it won’t ever end.”

“It won’t,” Tony said. “I am yours, and you are mine, and I love you, will love you to the end of my days.” He kissed Bucky again, thoroughly mapping every inch of Bucky’s mouth, testing the corners, the inner edges of Bucky’s lips, the sweet twist of their tongues sliding together. It went on and on and on until finally they were forced to part for lack of air. Tony rested his forehead against Bucky’s, eyes closed. “I love you.”

His hand found the waist of Bucky’s trousers and slipped under it, fingertips brushing Bucky’s cock. Tony’s eyes opened at the catch in Bucky’s breath, and he grinned. “I want you,” he said, as if that had ever been in doubt. “I want you in me.”

Bucky didn’t realize he had inhaled and then couldn’t breathe out until spots started swimming in front of his eyes, he was so shocked. “Tony?”

“You can say no, if you’d rather not,” Tony said, his head cocking to one side slightly as he looked back.

He didn’t know why it shocked him so much; the whole idea of he and Tony declaring themselves was that they were headed toward a shared, equal partnership. That Bucky had no idea how to actually do that -- well, it wasn’t Tony’s fault. “I-- is that something you would like?” He was well and away too used to being the receiving partner, in all relations with his patrons. “You’re not my patron--” he said, realizing it for the very first time. He could, in fact, _say no_ , if he didn’t want something. “Forgive me, the world tipped over and I’m trying to adapt to a change in gravity.” He smiled, because it was funny, and because he wanted Tony to understand that… that Bucky was coming to an understanding of the gift he’d been given.

Tony chuckled a little, dipped down for another aching, lingering kiss. “It’s all right. Whatever the gravity is doing, I’ll catch you.” He nuzzled at Bucky’s throat, and his fingers stroked the length of Bucky’s cock lightly, distractingly. “I would like it,” he added. “If you would, too. If not, well, I’ve not had any complaints at all going the other way. I just thought...”

Bucky took hold of Tony’s wrist, pushed himself up into that teasing touch. “I would like it,” he said, like a promise.

Tony responded to Bucky’s direction, curling his hand around to stroke more firmly. “Good,” he said, sounding honestly pleased. “Especially as I think it will be easier on your injuries if I ride you.” He pulled his hand free, slithering down the bed to begin unfastening Bucky’s trousers.

“Beautiful, tempting man,” Bucky accused him, lifting his hips to assist. Already needing Tony, wanting whatever Tony was willing to give him. He sucked air again, as Tony’s mouth ghosted over the sensitive skin, a hot breath against his flesh. 

“For me, it’s you who are the temptation,” Tony said, matter-of fact. “So it seems we’re well matched.” He glanced up at Bucky, winked impishly, and then closed his mouth over Bucky’s cock, sucking it in until it was nearly grazing the back of Tony’s throat.

Tony’s touch was like a prayer, reverent and glorious and raw-- It made Bucky long for a stage, to sing his joy. “Good Christ,” he managed to gasp. 

Tony chuckled, sending jolts of sensation through Bucky’s body. His tongue curled around Bucky’s length and then he pulled off with an obscene slurp. “You like that? Good. There’s more where that came from.” He sat back to wrestle with his own clothes, finally peeling them off and throwing them to the floor. He stretched back out, covering Bucky like a blanket, and pressed sweet kisses along Bucky’s jaw. “You’re so beautiful.”

Bucky threw his arm over his eyes, feigning a swoon. “You flatter me,” he said, not quite laughing, enjoying the strange sensations of being adored, being cared for. Tony had always been tender, always been sweeter than what Bucky was used to, but this was something else entirely. Worshipful. 

Every touch made Bucky shiver, every word made his throat ache with need, with love. “I call your bluff-- let me witness this _more_.”

“Bluff? I never bluff.” Which was an out and out lie, and Bucky would have said something about it except that Tony had swallowed him down again, his mouth a slick inferno, his tongue a sweet torment, and when Bucky peered out from under his arm, Tony’s eyes were fixed on his face, intent as a hunting predator.

That hot look was nearly enough to undo Bucky completely. “If you do that for terribly much longer, you’ll find I am sated and you will not get your own satisfaction,” Bucky said. What would that be like, he wondered. Laying in a bed and letting Tony attend him without any expectations? Difficult, Bucky decided, because he wanted Tony to find as much joy in their union as Bucky did.

Tony bobbed his head a few more times, almost defiantly, as if to prove he could draw Bucky’s pleasure out longer, then pulled off with a grin. He rolled over to reach into the beautifully-carved nightstand by the bed, and came back with a small bottle of oil.

Bucky considered the matter, trying to work out positions and his own limitations. “If you-- turn around and-- then I can see what I am doing, and still not put undue pressure--” He wiggled his stump a little, still aching.

“You want to?” Tony looked a little surprised at that, but willingly repositioned himself, cautious not to poke Bucky’s stump with his toes as he straddled Bucky’s chest. He twisted around, holding out the bottle. “Here, I’ll pour you some.”

“Yes,” Bucky said, decisively, because Tony was almost as shocked by that suggestion as Bucky had been taken aback by Tony’s. Seemed fair, if the world was going to be tipped over, that both of them experience it. “I want to learn what you like, and how you wish it-- and I don’t want to hurt you.”

Tony tipped some oil out into Bucky’s hand and corked the bottle again. “I appreciate that, I don’t want to be hurt. I just figured I would have toooohhhh God, that’s nice.”

Bucky didn’t bother to comment on that, not wanting to ask too many questions, or think too hard on Tony’s previous lovers. All his attention narrowed to a small patch of Tony’s skin, the opening to his body, and all the wicked and delicious things Bucky could do with a fingertip, the first inch of his finger. The way he could make Tony moan and shift his hips, every heartbeat and every hitched breath, the way waves of gooseflesh spread over Tony’s thighs. 

“Oh god, yes, that’s-- That’s good, you can go deeper now, that would be good too, I’m ready for that.” Tony kept up a near-constant stream of chatter, which Bucky was used to, but somehow not, when it was reversed like this. “Bucky, sweetheart, you’re too good to me, that’s so sweet, oh...”

“I wonder if I could get you there,” Bucky said, “just like this--” He pushed deeper into Tony’s body, running his thumb over the loosened rim.

Tony shuddered, clenching around him and then loosening again. “Maybe, probably, with enough time,” he guessed. “But not tonight, I’m too tired tonight for something that lengthy.”

“Well, then you may turn around and get the other thing that is lengthy--” Bucky laughed at the look Tony shot him, half-offended, half exasperated.

“That is a terrible joke and I won’t have it,” Tony said loftily, even though he was already turning around and doing a terrible job of suppressing his smile. “No one is allowed to be funnier than me.”

Bucky wiped his fingers on the sheet, trying to rid himself of the slippery remaining oil. “We have a problem, then,” Bucky said, “as I was being perfectly serious.”

Tony scoffed, but then he was lowering himself onto Bucky’s cock, eyes closed in concentration, head tipped back to expose his throat. God it was _tight_ and warm, almost uncomfortably hot, the oil easing the way a little but not enough to keep the clench of Tony’s body around him from being almost unbearably good.

Bucky’s hand clenched harder in the sheets, trying to hold himself down, to prevent himself from lunging up into Tony’s body, from claiming and taking everything. It wasn’t his to take, only Tony’s to give. “Oh, _god_ ,” he managed to say, shaking with the effort to keep himself still.

“Yes,” Tony sighed, sinking further down, and further, until he could get no deeper. He braced his hands against Bucky’s chest, breathing carefully until another deep shudder wracked him, and he relaxed, going nearly boneless. “Yes, that’s perfect.” He leaned down to kiss Bucky, deep and slow, and just when Bucky thought he couldn’t bear it any longer, Tony started to move.

“ _You’re_ perfect,” Bucky whispered, awed by the trust, the dedication, the absolute generosity of Tony, who was giving this brilliant, splendid moment to Bucky. To an opera singer with no name and no fortune, and only moderate talent. Surely he’d been blessed. Some god, ancient and forgotten had looked down and decided, yes, this one pleases me. Give him everything.

Tony’s body rolled over him like the waves of the ocean rolling into shore, beautiful and relentless, not stopping even when Tony’s mouth sought Bucky’s for more of those deep, drugging kisses, more powerful than the laudanum, sweet and heated, a little messy and perfect in their imperfection. “Love you,” he gasped, “my darling, my Bucky, my love...”

Bucky rocked with him, the shore to Tony’s cascading wave, giving everything he could, aching and longing a tangle that swirled them together, until his bliss was so sublime, he arched up, crying out. “Tony--”

“That’s it, that’s right, give it to me,” Tony panted, still moving, still wringing every drop of desperation and desire out of Bucky. He worked a hand between them, fumbling for his own length, breath ragged in Bucky’s ear.

He knew, he _knew_ that he should be more attentive to Tony’s needs, less greedy, a better, more generous lover. But he just couldn’t-- not this time, not now. He needed, and he came to his pitch with more force than he’d ever felt in his life, as if love was a carriage and it ran him down in the street. He was blind and deaf with it, lost only in the feel of Tony’s body, the only sounds he heard were Tony’s cries, the only thing he knew was that Tony was on him, around him, surrounding him.

Bucky tipped his head back, gasping, crying out, straining to reach, and then he toppled over the side of the mountain, an impossible fall and knowing, trusting, that Tony would be right there with him, catch him when he fell.

Or maybe it was the other way around. Tony all but collapsed onto Bucky’s chest, limp as a ragdoll, breath heaving. “Oh god,” he managed weakly. “That was fantastic.”

“I may never move again,” Bucky declared. 

“Acceptable,” Tony judged. He tucked his face into the curve of Bucky’s neck. “I’ll just stay right here.”


	14. Chapter 14

The bans had been cried not once, but twice, and no objections had yet been raised, although there had been a great deal of muttering, both amongst the peers and in less noble circles.

Tony had been determined to ignore it; he was doing things properly, and if anyone was going to be aggressive about their wedding, he could in fact just take Bucky and run off to Scotland. 

Which meant when they left church after the second reading, it was an unpleasant surprise to be greeted, not by Tony’s own carriage, but by the King’s herald.

Sir Coulson, who had under a few circumstances been called the King’s hatchetman (discreetly, behind his back) was a sober, sensible fellow. A good fighter and a good soldier, but not at all adverse to carrying out less than savory orders, strode up to him. “Lord Stark, I presume?”

Tony suppressed the sudden and urgent desire to run, and another desire to place himself between Bucky and Sir Coulson -- as if it would do any good at all, if the king had ordered Coulson to ensure that Tony _not_ marry Bucky by any means necessary. He drew himself up and lifted his chin. “You presume correctly, my good sir. How may we serve you?”

“The King hungers for the presence of your company. Most immediately,” Coulson said, holding out one of the king’s fussy formal scrolls, with his seal and signature, the ink practically fresh. “And Mr. Barnes, as well.”

Tony swallowed, but his hand did not shake as he took the scroll. “How immediately, exactly?” he asked, skimming the writing. Very formal and fussy, thick with “heretofore”s and “inasmuch”es and “forthwith”s.

Coulson gave Tony a withering look. “I recommend before sunset, if you’d like to see dawn. But you may upgrade your clothing to something more court-appropriate. I trust you don’t need an escort.” There was something about his bearing that suggested he might be entertained to march Tony and Bucky down the street to the palace at sword point if necessary.

“Thank you, no,” Tony said. “I know the way. We shall change and attend his majesty at once.”

Bucky barely waited until Coulson was returned to the royal coach. “Are you kidding?” His voice went up several registers until it was almost inaudible. “The _king_? Wants to see us-- now? That. Doesn’t sound good.”

“It does not,” Tony admitted. He caught Bucky’s hand in his own. “Whatever the purpose of this summons, we will face it together. I will _not_ give you up.”

“Does it--” Bucky nodded at the scroll. “Does it say anything, or is it just a ‘come here, now’? I’ve never seen a royal proclamation. That paper’s worth a fortune, just on its own.” Which was true; the edges of the scroll were gilt and the ribbon around it was threaded with gold.

Reluctant to relinquish his hold on Bucky, Tony held up the scroll to show it. “We are to present ourselves as immediately as possible. No explanation. I suppose it’s something like a good sign that he didn’t have Sir Coulson slap us in irons in the street.”

“Arrest us? For what,” Bucky wondered, but they both knew it didn’t matter. The King was as fair a man as it was possible to be, but in the end, his word was still law, and his whim was as good as his word. He wasn’t as bad as some kings, but really, there was often something otherly about a person with so much power.

“I suppose we shall find out,” Tony said with a sigh. “Come, darling. We’ll want to be presentable. And for some reason I’m no longer in the mood for an early supper.”

“I expect there’s some court etiquette that says it’s bad manners to cast up one’s accounts on the king’s carpet,” Bucky said. He shuddered and followed Tony back to their carriage.

Tony handed him up and followed, settling against Bucky’s side. “It seems like a bad idea, at the least.” He looked out the window at the familiar streets passing. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it,” he promised, though he wasn’t certain it was a promise he could keep.

Tony wasn’t a fan of formality, and the court outfit was especially stifling, but it wouldn’t do to appear at any disadvantage. He was a (mostly) respected member of the peerage, his family as ancient as any.

Bucky, on the other hand, was not well kitted for a court appearance. Even his best clothes were going to appear shabby by comparison, and even the most glorious of the troupe's costumes would hardly hold up on closer examination. Alas, there wasn’t time to correct that. He wouldn’t fit into any of Tony’s other things.

“I feel like we are going to our own hanging,” Bucky muttered as they bundled back into the carriage.

“I’m at least eighty percent certain that if we were going to be hanged, they’d have just arrested us coming out of the church,” Tony said. It wasn’t as comforting as he’d hoped it would be. There were still plenty of other terrible things that could happen. Far, far too many possibilities.

He reached for Bucky’s hand, to comfort and be comforted, and wasn’t ashamed to find that he was trembling.

Coulson, apparently, hadn’t even bothered to go inside once he'd returned to the palace, standing there in the drive as if waiting for them. “I’m to take you before his Majesty as soon as you arrive.” He drew in front of them, and a whole squad of men fell in behind them, an armed escort. Bucky shivered, chewing his lip as they walked.

The palace was ornate, luxurious, ridiculously overblown, and under normal circumstances Tony might have stopped to point out specific examples of royal excess. But when was being summoned post-haste by the king a normal circumstance? Tony was a lord, not a duke; he’d met the king only a handful of times, and never _personally_. Before today, he wasn’t even sure his Majesty knew what Tony’s given name was.

That certainly didn’t go on the tax register.

Still, Tony had been born to the peerage, and he wasn’t about to put his fear on display. He kept his chin up, one hand in the small of Bucky’s back solicitously -- making his statement, there, even if he wasn’t to be permitted to speak -- and followed Coulson through the wide halls.

King Nicolas was a tall man -- or at least, he looked tall when on his throne that was seated on a dais above the floor. He wore purple robes and lounged on his throne as if he was bored senseless with the proceedings.

“You know the worst part about summoning someone?” he demanded as soon as they got into the room. “It’s that you gotta sit around and wait for them to _show up_.”

Tony wondered if every person in the room heard the dry click of his throat as he swallowed. He bowed, low. “Forgive us the delay, Your Majesty.”

Bucky had been all but ashen-faced in the carriage, and through their walk to the throne room, but somewhere in there, Bucky had put on his own mask. His entire demeanor changed to someone who not only belonged in the throne room, but was in no way threatened by it. Even knowing him as well as Tony did now, he could only see the barest edges of Bucky’s very real terror underneath.

“Go on then,” King Nicolas said. “Present your betrothed to us. I’ve heard much about him.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Allow me to present Mr. James Barnes, a loyal citizen of Your Majesty’s rule, my intended.” Tony took half a step to the side, gesturing. “I have found him to be a man of courage and conviction, well-honed wit and gentle compassion, a worthy helpmeet.”

“Your Majesty,” Bucky said, and he bowed with a flourish.

“Yes, yes, get up,” King Nicolas said, getting up from his throne. The court gave the slightest sigh, as if this were a thing that the king _shouldn’t do_ , but had done often enough that they were used to it. “Come here, I want to speak without shouting.” He sat on the edge of his dais, which put him about on eye level with them, even if the crown perched on his bald head made it utterly clear that he still outranked them and everyone else in the room.

Cautiously, keeping the king’s guards in his peripheral vision, Tony advanced, Bucky at his side. He stopped when they were a little more than arm’s length from the dais, when one of the guards twitched.

“It’s impossible to have a decent conversation around here,” Nicolas complained. “Can’t even take a bath with my mistress without royal guards and cup-bearers and ass-wipers everywhere. You two, however. Have made my life a bit less dreary recently. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”

“Somewhat less than Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Your Majesty?” Bucky suggested. 

Tony was quite positive that the courtier who took it upon herself to swoon dramatically at Bucky’s cheek was feigning. No one fainted that neatly.

“I don’t think it’ll be necessary to execute you both, so that much is true,” Nicolas said, laughing. “Nor the prince of Denmark, either. So, less trouble than that, yes. I like him, Lord Stark. I’d probably like you as well, but you’ve been spurning my company. Not a fault your father had. Howard was often right here in court. Terribly tiresome man, sometimes, but smart as a whip, and a good head for policy.”

“No one who met him could deny my father’s intelligence,” Tony said. It was true enough. “I admit I have been not much in the habit of attending court.” That was also true, a habit formed of a desire to remain as far from Howard as possible.

“I--” Nicolas said, thumping himself in the chest, “--am going to fix that. You will attend court from time to time. I have need of that keen intellect. And, while I am at it, I’m going to make sure you hate me, almost as much as you hated your father.”

The woman who'd pretended to faint seemed to discover, in fact, that fainting was a real thing, because she swooned again, much less gracefully, and hit her head on the rail in front of the court’s chairs.

Bucky took an almost imperceptible step closer to Tony.

“By which I mean to solve my problem by dumping it on you,” Nicolas went on. “You caused it, you fix it.” 

“What problem might that be, Your Majesty?” Tony wondered cautiously.

“Given recent developments,” Nicolas said, “I have currently rather a lot of badly-managed properties in the north, which need supervision, and no Lord. It being difficult to manage property from prison.” He nodded his head significantly. “Right, let’s get on with this. You, kneel.” He pointed one finger at Bucky.

Bucky was shaking, unable to look up, as he went down on one knee, presenting the back of his neck to the king.

Tony wasn’t much steadier. “Your Majesty, what--”

“Coulson--” the King said, looking around for his right hand man. “Where-- thank you! Do I have to do everything around here?”

Coulson handed the King a sword with a sly little smirk. “You are the King, sire,” he reminded Nicolas. “So, generally. Yes. You have to do everything.”

“This,” Nicolas said, gesturing to Coulson with the bare blade. “I need more of this in my court, and less of that.” He indicated the slowly rousing courtier. “So, by the power vested in me, blah blah blah, my secretary will make that look official later. I hereby name you Sir James Barnes, and as part of this accolade, I’m granting you certain lands and properties in the north, previously belonging to one Aldrich Killian. Swear your loyalty, and rise, a Knight of the Realm.”

A _knight?_ They’d been summoned to elevate Bucky to the peerage?

Tony could only stare at the king in shock as Bucky stammered out his oath of loyalty, gently prompted by Sir Coulson, because Bucky had never had reason to learn that particular oath.

And he was giving Bucky the land that had been Killian’s. Giving it to _them_ , in truth, knowing that they were soon to be wed.

Tony had no doubt that Killian’s estate would need a great deal of work; he’d mentioned it but rarely, having no interest in it beyond the rents and tributes he collected.

Tony eyed the sly little smile on the king’s expression. “You did that on purpose,” he murmured, low enough the rest of the court wouldn’t hear.

“I’m the king, Stark,” Nicolas said. “Of course I did it on purpose. I do everything on purpose. It’s what God tells me to do. Call it my sense of divine justice. I hear more than you might think, even with all the pomp and circumstance.”

“I’ve no doubt, sire.”

“Liar,” Nicolas said. “Still, this will silence some of the complaints, gain me a competent lord for the lands in the north, and get you to come to court more often. I call that a victory-- and no, I don’t care what you call it. Get me an invitation to your wedding, if you don’t mind.”

Bucky got to his feet slowly and was presented with his own sword from the King’s hand (well, via Coulson, who helped him belt it on) and a number of scrolls and deeds that would outline what, precisely, he owned.

Nicolas clapped his hands twice. “I introduce to the royal court Sir James, who has earned my favor and sworn his fealty.”

Tony put his hand on Bucky's shoulder as they turned to face the court, giving it a comforting squeeze. He scanned those present -- fawners and hangers-on, mostly, hoping to be noticed, if not by the king then by some other high-ranking noble. A few were giving Bucky dangerous looks, and Tony made a note to ask Sir Coulson who they were, later. Coulson seemed like the sort of man who would know such things. But most of them were politely applauding, pleased with such a storybook ending to the saga that had been, Tony had been informed, the best gossip of the season.

“Did that just happen?” Bucky whispered when Coulson escorted them over to what had once been Howard’s place at court, a small, not-quite private box where they could see and be seen.

“I’ll let you know, next time I wake up,” Tony returned softly, but he kept Bucky close by his side to feel the heat of their closeness, letting it slowly melt away the remnants of his fear.

Nicolas climbed back onto his throne and went on with the general business of the day, until he declared himself bored with the entire thing -- Tony couldn't blame him, most of it was utterly stultifying -- and the rest of the petitioners were turned away to wait for the King’s pleasure and attention tomorrow.

Coulson came back again, “I’ve had a list drawn up,” he confided, “of the properties on your new acquisition that require immediate attention. We’re quite sure you’ll do better than the previous--” 

“I manage actors and singers and stagemasters,” Bucky said, “Not-- farmers.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find the farmers less trouble, really,” Coulson said. 

“He’s right,” Tony said, nodding. “And where the similarities fall short, I’ll be more than happy to lend my experience. That’s what partners do, after all.”

Bucky squeezed Tony’s hand. “I’d feel better if you lend me Jarvis.”

Tony pretended to be offended, though Bucky could hardly have chosen a better assistant. “You are _not_ to steal my butler to be your estate manager,” he said.

“The solution for that is simple,” Bucky said. “You can just live on _my_ estate.”

Tony laughed. “We shall have to devise a schedule,” he said, “between two estates and a court appointment.”

“If I can schedule performances for three plays and two operas during our peak season, as well as rehearsals and costume fittings, this should be easy enough, my love.”

“I shall depend upon you to manage it,” Tony said.

“And I,” Bucky said, softly, “will depend on _you_ , to manage me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on this fic! Congratulations to those of you who guessed Bucky would be somehow knighted by the end. ;)
> 
> Next week, we'll start posting an as-yet-untitled steampunk arranged marriage fic, which combines many, many of our favorite things! Make sure you're subscribed to one or both of us and stay tuned!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Something of a Surprise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512114) by [hundredthousands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hundredthousands/pseuds/hundredthousands)




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